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THE 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


ALFRED  TENNYSON, 

POET  LAUREATE. 

COMPLETE  EDITION, 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknob  & Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  & Co. 

1877. 


/ 


It  is  my  wish  that  with  Messrs.  Ticknor  and  Fields  alone  the 
right  of  publishi:ig  my  books  in  America  should  resC. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


University  Press:  Welch,  Bigelow,  & Co., 
Cambridge. 


Ui 

Ignir- 


CONTENTS. 


Poems  (Published  1830)  : — 

To  the  Queen  • • . • • 

Claribel 

Lilian 

Isabel  ..•••• 
Mariana  •••••• 

To 

Madeline 

Song. — The  Owl . 

Second  Song 

Recollections  of  the  Arabian  Nights 
Ode  to  Memory  .... 

Song 

Adeline 

A Character 

The  Poet  ..... 
The  Poet’s  Mind  .... 
The  Sea-Fairies  .... 
The  Deserted  House  , 

The  Dying  Swan  .... 
A Dirge  . . . , 

Love  and  Death  .... 
The  Ballad  of  Oriana  , . • 

Circumstance  ..... 
The  Merman  .... 

The  Mermaid 

Sonnet  to  J.  M.  K. 

Poems  (Published  1832):  — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  , . , 

Mariana  in  the  South  . . , 

Eleanore 

The  Miller’s  Daughter 
Fatima  . 

CEnone  . 

The  Sisters 
To 


3 

3 

4 
4 

4 

5 

6 
6 
7 
7 


. 8 

9 

• 9 

9 

. zo 

10 
. II 

11 
. II 

12 


12 

14 

15 

16 
18 
18 
21 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 

The  May  Queen 

New-Year’s  Eve 26 

Conclusion 

The  Lotos-Eaters 

A Dream  of  Fair  Women  . . 

Margaret 

The  Blackbird  

The  Death  of  the  Old  Year , 24 

ToJ-S ■ . ■ . 35 

You  ask  me  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease  ” , 25 

“Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights  ” 26 

“ Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought  ” 26 

The  Goose  

English  Idyls  and  other  Poems  (Published  1842):  — 

The  Epic 28 

Morte  d’ Arthur 28 

The  Gardener’s  Daughter  ; or.  The  Pictures 

Dora . .. 

Audley  Court ^2 

Walking  to  the  Mail ^5 

Edwin  Morris  ; or.  The  Lake 

St.  Simeon  Stylites 

The  Talking  Oak  

Love  and  Duty 

The  Golden  Year 55 

Ulysses 

Locksley  Hall 56 

Godiva 60 

The  Two  Voices 61 

The  Day-Dream 65 

Amphion . 68 

St.  Agnes 69 

Sir  Galahad 69 

^ Edward  Gray 7° 

Will  Waterproofs  Lyrical  Monologue 70 

To , after  reading  a Life  and  Letters 72 

To  E.  L.,  on  his  Travels  in  Greece 73 

Lady  Clare 73 

The  Lord  of  Burleigh 74 

Sir  Launcelotand  Queen  Guinevere *75 

A Farewell 75 

The  Beggar  Maid 75 

The  Vision  of  Sin 75 

“ Come  not,  when  I am  dead  ”...  . . 7^ 

The  Eagle  7^ 

“ Move  eastward,  happy  Earth,  and  leave  ” 78 

“ Break,  break,  break  ” 78 

The  Poet’s  Song 78 


CONTENTS, 

The  Princess  : A Medley 

In  Memoriam  

Maud,  and  other  Poems  : — 

Maud 

The  Brook ; an  Idyl 

The  Letters 

Ode  on  the  Death  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  . , . 

The  Daisy  

To  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice 

Will 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade 

Idyls  of  the  King:  — 

Dedication • 

Enid 

Vivien  . • . 

Elaine  . 

Guinevere  ......... 

Enoch  Arden 

Additional  Poems  : — 

Aylmer’s  Field , 

Sea  Dreams 

The  Grandmother 

Northern  Farmer 

Tithonus 

The  Voyage . . . 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz  . • . . . 

The  Flower 

Requiescat 

The  Sailor-Boy  

The  Islet 

The  Ringlet 

A Welcome  to  Alexandra 

Ode  sung  at  the  Opening  of  the  International  Exhibition 

A Dedication 

The  Captain  ; a Legend  of  the  Navy  . . . . 

Three  Sonnets  to  a Coquette 

On  a Mourner 

Song . 

Song 

Experiments 

Boadicea  

In  Quantity . , , 

Specimen  of  a Translation  of  the  Iliad  in  Blank  Verse 

The  Holy  Grail  and  other  Poems:  — 

The  Coming  of  Arthur 

The  Holy  Gsail 


vii 

79 


141 

15^5 

158 

159 

161 

162 

163 

163 

164 
164 
182 
190 
204 

211 


220 

228 

231 

234 

235 

236 

237 
237 


238 

239 
239 
239 

239 

240 

240 

241 
241 

241 

243 

243 

245 

249 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Pelleas  and  Ettarre 258 

The  Passing  of  Arthur 264 

Miscellaneous  : — 

Northern  Farmer.  New  Style  269 

The  Victim 270 

Wages 

The  Higher  Pantheism 271 

Lucretius 271 

The  Golden  Supper  274 

Additional  Poems:  — 

Timbuctoo  281 

Poems  published  in  the  Edition  of  1830,  and  omitted  in  Later  Editions:  — 

Elegiacs . 283 

The  “ How  ’*  and  the  “ Why  284 

Supposed  Confessions  of  a second-rate  sensitive  Mind  not  in  Unity  with  itself  284 

The  Burial  of  Love • . 286 

To 286 

Song 286 

Song 286 

Song 287 

Nothing  will  die 287 

All  Things  will  die 287 

Hero  to  Leander 28S 

The  Mystic 28S 

The  Grasshopper 288 

Love,  Pride,  and  Forgetfulness 289 

Chorus  in  an  unpublished  Drama,  written  very  early 289 

Lost  Hope 289 

The  Tears  of  Heaven 289 

Love  and  Sorrow 289 

To  a Lady  Sleeping 290 

Sonnet 290 

Sonnet 290 

Sonnet 290 

Sonnet 290 

Love 290 

The  Kraken 

English  War-Song 291 

National  Song 291 

Dualisms 292 

We  are  Free  ...* 292 

The  Sea  Fairies 292 

Ot  pcovres 293 

Poems  published  in  the  Edition  of  1833,  and  omitted  in  Later  Editions:  — 

Sonnet 293 

To 293 

Bonaparte 294 

Sonnets 294 

The  Hesperides 294 


CONTENTS.  ix 

Rosalind 295 

Song 296 

Kate  296 

Sonnet  written  on  hearing  of  the  Outbreak  of  the  Polish  Insurrection  . . 296 

Sonnet  on  the  Result  of  the  late  Russian  Invasion  of  Poland  ....  296 

Sonnet 297 

O Darling  Room . 297 

To  Christopher  North 297 

Fugitive  Poems  : — 

No  More 297 

Anacreontics 297 

A Fragment 297 

Sonnet  298 

Sonnet 298 

The  Skipping-Rope 298 

The  New  Timon  and  the  Poets 298 

Stanzas 299 

Sonnet  to  William  Charles  Macready 299 

Britons,  guard  your  own 299 

The  Third  of  February,  1852 300 

Hands  all  round * 300 

The  War 301 

On  a Spiteful  Letter 301 

1865  - 1866  301 

The  Window;  or,  the  Songs  of  the  Wrens. 

On  the  Hill 302 

At  the  Window 302 

Gone  302 

Winter 303 

Spring 303 

The  Letter 303 

No  Answer 303 

No  Answer 

The  Answer 303 

Ay! 

When  ? 304 

Marriage  Morning 304 

Gareth  and  Lynette 305 

The  Last  Tournament  . . ’ 321 

Epilogue  to  Idyls  of  the  King  329 

A Welcome  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Edinburgh  .....  330 

In  the  Garden  at  Swainston 

The  Voice  and  the  Peak 331 

Queen  Mary 332 

Harold 382 


• ■ 'i'  ■ 

■ .-r.-'l .,  :-  :.  .-''i: 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS, 


Page 

“ Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ” ♦ , . 2 

“ Adown  the  Tigris  I was  borne  ” 4 

“ Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away  '* , 9 

“ ‘ The  curse  is  come  upon  me,’  cried  The  Lady  of  Shalott  ** 13 

“ The  daughter  of  a hundred  Earls  ” 24 

“ O rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more  ” 28 

**  I have  been  to  blame,  — to  blame  ” 44 

**  Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships  ” . . . . 57 

“ My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap  ” . 67 

“ Lord  Ronald  brought  a lily-white  doe  ” 74 

“ Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee  ” 103 

“ Fair  ship  that  from  the  Italian  shore  ” 

**  Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky  ” 

“ She  came  to  the  village  church  ” 146 

The  long  street  of  a little  town  ” 166 

“ Drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes  Speak  for  her  ” 186 

“ Then  to  her  tower  she  climb’d,  and  took  the  shield  ” 

Guinevere . 204 

“ Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school  ” 214 

“ An  arm  Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake  ” 266 

“ Fie  on  thee.  King  ” 312 

“ And  crag  and  tree  scaling  ” 

Aylmer  Hall 371 

The  Grandmother 388 


POEM 


S . 

(published  1830.) 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

Revered,  beloved  — O you  that  hold 
A nobler  office  upon  earth 
Than  arms,  or  power  of  brain  or  birth 
Could  give  the  warrior  kings  of  old, 

Victoria,  — since  your  Royal  grace 
To  one  of  less  desert  allows 
This  laurel  greener  from  the  brows 
Of  him  that  utter’d  nothing  base  ; 

And  should  your  greatness,  and  the  care 
That  yokes  with  empire,  yield  you  time 
To  make  demand  of  modern  rhyme 
If  aught  of  ancient  worth  be  there  ; 

Then  — while  a sweeter  music  wakes, 
And  thro’  wild  March  the  throstle  calls. 
Where  all  about  your  palace -walls 
The  sunlit  almond-blossom  shakes  — 

Take,  Madam,  this  poor  book  of  song ; 
For  tho’  the  faults  were  thick  as  dust 
In  vacant  chambers,  I could  trust 
Your  kindness.  May  you  rule  us  long, 

And  leave  us  rulers  of  your  blood 
As  npble  till  the  latest  day  ! 

May  children  of  our  children  say, 

“ She  wrought  her  people  lasting  good ; 

“ Her  court  was  pure  ; her  life  serene  ; 
God  gave  her  peace  ; her  land  reposed ; 
A thousand  claims  to  reverence  closed 
In  her  as  Mother,  Wife,  and  Queen ; 

“ And  statesmen  at  her  council  met 
Who  knew  the  seasons,  when  to  take 
Occasion  by  the  hand,  and  make 
The  bounds  of  freedom  wider  yet 

“ By  shaping  some  august  decree, 

Which  kept  her  throne  unshaken  still. 
Broad  based  upon  her  people’s  will, 
And  compassed  by  the  inviolate  sea.” 
March,  1851. 


CLARIBEL. 

A MELODY. 


W HERE  Claribel  low-lieth 
The  breezes  pause  and  die. 
Letting  the  rose-leaves  fall : 
But  the  solemn  oak-tree  sighetb 
Thick-leaved,  ambrosial. 
With. an  ancient  melody 
Of  an  inward  agony. 

Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 

2. 

At  eve  the  beetle  boometh 
Athwart  the  thicket  lone  : 

At  noon  the  wild  bee  hummeth 
About  the  moss’d  headstone : 
At  midnight  the  moon  cometh, 
And  looketh  down  alone. 

3- 

Her  song  the  lintwhite  swelleth. 
The  clear-voiced  mavis  dwelleth. 
The  callow  throstle  lispeth. 

The  slumberous  wave  outwelleth, 
The  babbling  runnel  crispeth. 
The  hollow  grot  replieth 
Where  Claribel  low-lieth. 


LILIAN. 


Airy,  fairy  Lilian, 

Flitting,  fairy  Lilian, 

When  I ask  her  if  she  love  me. 
Claps  her  tiny  hands  above  me. 
Laughing  all  she  can  ; 

She  ’ll  not  tell  me  if  she  love  me. 
Cruel  little  Lilian. 


When  my  passion  seeks 
Pleasance  in  love-sighs 
She,  looking  thro’  and  thro’  me 
Thoroughly  to  undo  me. 

Smiling,  never  speaks : 

So  innocent-arch,  so  cunning-simple, 


2 ISABEL.  — 

From  beneath  her  gather’d  wimple 
Glancing  with  black-beaded  eyes, 

Till  the  lightning  laughters  dimple 
The  baby-roses  in  her  cheeks ; 

Then  away  she  flies. 

3- 

Pry  thee  weep,  May  Lilian  ! 

Gayety  without  eclipse 
Wearieth  me,  May  Lilian  : 

Thro’  my  very  heart  it  thrilleth 
When  from  crimson-threaded  lips 
Silver-treble  laughter  trilleth  w 
Prythee  weep,  May  Lihar^. 

4- 

Praying  all  I can. 

If  prayers  will  not  hush  thee. 

Airy  Lilian, 

Like  a rose-leaf  I will  crush  thee, 

Fairy  Lilian. 


ISABEL. 


Eyes  not  down-dropped  nor  over-bright,  but 
fed 

With  the  clear-pointed  flame  of  chastity. 
Clear,  without  heat,  undying,  tended  by 
Pure  vestal  thoughts  in  the  translucent 
fane 

Of  her  still  spirit ; locks  not  wide  dispread. 
Madonna-wise  on  either  side  her  head  ; 
Sweet  lips  whereon  perpetually  did  reign 
The  summer  calm  of  golden  charity. 

Were  fixed  shadows  of  thy  fixed  mood. 
Revered  Isabel,  the  crown  and  head. 
The  stately  flower  of  female  fortitude. 

Of  perfect  wifehood,  and  pure  lovvlihead. 

2. 

The  intuitive  decision  of  a bright 
And  thorough-edged  intellect  to  part 
Error  from  crime;  a prudence  to  withhold; 
The  laws  of  marriage  character’d  in  gold 
Upon  the  blanched  tablets  of  her  heart ; 

A love  still  burning  upward,  giving  light 
To  read  those  laws  ; an  accent  very  low 
In  blandishment,  but  a most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress, 
Right  to  the  heart  and  brain,  tho’  undescried. 
Winning  its  way  with  extreme  gentleness 
Thro’  all  the  outworks  of  suspicious  pride  ; 
A courage  to  endure  and  to  obey  ; 

A hate  of  gossip  parlance  and  of  sway. 
Crown’d  Isabel,  thro’  all  her  placid  life, 

The  queen  of  marriage,  a most  perfect  wife. 

3- 

The  mellowed  reflex  of  a winter  moon  ; 

A clear  stream  flowing  with  a muddy  one. 
Till  in  its  onward  current  it  absorbs 

With  swifter  movement  and  in  purer  light 
The  vexed  eddies  of  its  wayward  brother ; 
A leaning  and  upbearing  parasite. 
Clothing  the  stem,  which  else  had  fallen 
quite. 

With  cluster’d  flower-bells  and  ambrosial 
orbs 


MAE /ANA. 

Of  rich  fruit-bunches  leaning  on  each 
other  — 

Shadow  forth  thee  ; — the  world  hath  not 
another 

(Though  all  her  fairest  forms  are  types  of  thee, 
And  thou  of  God  in  thy  great  charity) 

Of  such  a finish’d  chasten’d  purity. 


MARIANA. 

“ Mariana  in  the  moated  grange.” 

Measure  for  Measure. 
With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all : 

The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look’d  sad  and  strange  ; 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  : 

Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,”  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead  I ” 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  ; 

She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 
Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 

After  the  flitting  of  the  bats. 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky. 

She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by. 

And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 

She  only  said,  “ The  night  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,”  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead  I ” 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night. 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow  : 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen’s  low 
Came  to  her  : without  hope  of  change. 

In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn. 

Till  cold  winds  woke  the  gray-eyed  mom 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  “ The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,”  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “lam  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead  1 ” 

About  a stone-cast  from  the  wall 
A sluice  with  blacken’d  waters  slept. 

And  o’er  it  many,  round  and  small. 

The  cluster’d  marish-mosses  crept. 

Hard  by  a poplar  shook  alway. 

All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark  : 

For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  gray. 

She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,’’  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead  ! ” 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low. 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away. 

In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro. 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 

r 


‘‘  Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried.” 


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TO  .—MADELINE. 


But  when  the  moon  was  veiy  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said,  “ The  night  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,”  she  said; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

1 would  that  I were  dead  I” 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house. 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak’d  ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane  ; the  mouse 
Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek’d. 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about. 

Old  faces  glimmer’d  thro’  the  doors. 

Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 

Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 

She  only  said,  “ My  life  is  dreary. 

He  cometh  not,”  she  said  ; 

She  said,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

I would  that  I were  dead ! ” 

The  sparrow’s  chirruj)  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 
The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ; but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then  said  she,  I am  very  dreary. 

He  will  not  come,”  she  said  ; 

She  wept,  “ I am  aweary,  aweary, 

O God,  that  I were  dead  ! ” 


TO 


Clear-headed  friend,  whose  joyful  scorn. 
Edged  with  sharp  laughter,  cuts  atwain 
The  knots  that  tangle  human  creeds, 
The  wounding  cords  that  bind  and  strain 
The  heart  until  it  bleeds, 

Ray-fringed  eyelids  of  the  mom 

Roof  not  a glance  so  keen  as  thine  : 

If  aught  of  prophecy  be  mine. 

Thou  wilt  not  live  in  vain. 

2. 

Low-cowering  shall  the  Sophist  sit ; 
Falsehood  shall  bare  her  plaited  brow  : 
Fair- fronted  Truth  shall  droop  not  now 
With  shrilling  shafts  of  subtle  wit. 

Nor  martyr-flames,  nor  trenchant  swords 
Can  do  away  that  ancient  lie  ; 

A gentler  death  shall  Falsehood  die, 

Shot  thro’  and  thro’  with  cunning  words. 

3- 

Weak  Truth  a-leaning  on  her  crutch. 

Wan,  wasted  Truth  in  her  utmost  need. 
Thy  kingly  intellect  shall  feed. 

Until  she  be  an  athlete  bold, 


And  weary  with  a finger’s  touch 
Those  writhed  limbs  of  lightning  speed  ; 

Like  that  strange  angel  which  of  old. 
Until  the  breaking  of  the  light. 

Wrestled  with  wandering  Israel, 

Past  Yabbok  brook  the  livelong  night, 
And  heaven’s  mazed  signs  stood  still 
In  the  dim  tract  of  Penuel. 


MADELINE. 


T Hou  art  not  steeped  in  golden  languors. 
No  tranced  summer  calm  is  thine. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thro’  light  and  shadow  thou  dost  range. 
Sudden  glances,  sweet  and  strange, 
Delicious  spites  and  darling  angers. 

And  airy  forms  of  flitting  change. 

2. 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore. 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 

Revealings  deep  and  clear  are  thine 
Of  wealthy  smiles  ; but  who  may  know 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  fleeter? 
Whether  smile  or  frown  be  sweeter. 

Who  may  know? 

Frowns  perfect-sweet  along  the  brow 
Light-glooming  over  eyes  divine. 

Like  little  clouds,  sun-fringed,  are  thine, 
Ever  varying  Madeline. 

Thy  smile  and  frown  are  not  aloof 
From  one  another. 

Each  to  each  is  dearest  brother  ; 

Hues  of  the  silken  sheeny  woof 
Momently  shot  into  each  other. 

All  the  rnystery  is  thine  ; 

Smiling,  frowning,  evermore, 

Thou  art  perfect  in  love-lore. 

Ever  varying  Madeline. 

3- 

A subtle,  sudden  flame, 

By  veering  passion  fann’d, 

About  thee  breaks  and  dances ; 

When  I would  kiss  thy  hand. 

The  flush  of  anger’d  shame 

O’erflows  thy  calmer  glances. 

And  o’er  black  brows  drops  down 
A sudden-curved  frown. 

But  when  I turn  away. 

Thou,  willing  me  to  stay, 

Wooest  not,  nor  vainly  wrangles! ; 

But,  looking  fixedly  the  while. 

All  my  bounding  heart  entanglest 
In  a golden-netted  smile  ; 

Then  in  madness  and  in  bliss. 

If  my  Ups  should  dare  to  kiss 
Thy  taper  fingers  amorously. 

Again  thou  blushest  angerly  ; 

And  o’er  black  brows  drops  down 
A sudden-curved  frown. 


4 


SONGS.  — RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ARABIAN’  NIGHTS. 


SONG.  — THE  OWL. 


For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 


X. 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 

And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

I'he  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

2. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch. 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay. 
And  the  cock  Ipth  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  : 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits. 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

1. 

Thy  tuwhits  are  lull’d  I wot. 

Thy  tuwhoos  of  yesternight, 

Which  upon  the  dark  afloat, 

So  took  echo  with  delight, 

So  took  echo  with  delight. 

That  her  voice  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a fainter  tone. 

2. 

I would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew ; 

But  I cannot  mimic  it ; 

Not  a whit  of  th*y  tuwhoo, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a lengthen’d  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS. 

When  the  breeze  of  a joyful  dawn  blew  free 
In  the  silken  sail  of  infancy. 

The  tide  of  time  flow’d  back  with  me. 

The  forward-flowing  tide  of  time  : 

And  many  a sheeny  summer-morn, 

Adown  the  Tigris  I was  borne, 

By  Bagdat’s  shrines  of  fretted  gold, 

High- walled  gardens  green  and  old  ; 

True  Mussulman  was  I and  sworn. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Anight  my  shallop,  rustling  thro’ 

The  low  and  bloomed  foliage,  drove 
The  fragrant,  glistening  deeps,  and  clove 
The  citron-shadows  in  the  blue  : 

By  garden  porches  on  the  brim. 

The  costly  doors  flung  open  wide. 

Gold  glittering  thro’  lamplight  dim, 

And  broider’d  sofas  on  each  side  : 

In  sooth  it  was  a goodly  time, 


Often,  where  clear-stemm’d  platans  guard 
The  outlet,  did  I turn  away 
The  boat-head  down  a broad  canal 
From  the  main  river  sluiced,  where  all 
The  .sloping  of  the  moon-lit  sward 
Was  damask-work,  and  deep  inlay 
Of  braided  blooms  unmown,  which  crept 
Adown  to  where  the  water  slept. 

A goodly  place,  a goodly  time. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

A motion  from  the  river  won 
Ridged  the  smooth  level,  bearing  on 
My  shallop  thro’  the  star-strown  calm. 

Until  another  night  in  night 
I enter’d,  from  the  clearer  light, 

Imbower’d  vaults  of  pillar’d  palm, 
Imprisoning  sweets,  which  as  they  clomb 
Heavenward,  were  stay’d  beneath  the  dome 
Of  hollow  boughs.  — A goodly  time. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Still  onward  ; and  the  clear  canal 
Is  rounded  to  as  clear  a lake. 

From  the  green  rivage  many  a fall 
Of  diamond  rillets  musical. 

Thro’  little  crystal  arches  low 
Down  from  the  central  fountain’s  flow 
Fall’n  silver-chiming,  seem’d  to  shake 
The  sparkling  flints  beneath  the  prow. 

A goodly  place,  a goodly  time. 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Above  thro’  many  a bowery  turn 
A walk  with  vary-color’d  shells 
Wander’d  engrain’d.  On  either  side 
All  round  about  the  fragrant  marge 
From  fluted  vase,  and  brazen  um 
In  order,  eastern  flowers  large, 

Some  dropping  low  their  crimson  bells 
Half-closed,  and  others  studded  wide 
With  disks  and  tiars,  fed  the  time 
With  odor  in ’the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Far  off,  and  where  the  lemon-grove 
In  closest  coverture  upsprung. 

The  living  airs  of  middle  night 
Died  round  the  bulbul  as  he  sung  ; 

Not  he  : but  something  which  possess’d 
The  darkness  of  the  world,  delight. 

Life,  anguish,  death,  immortal  love. 

Ceasing  not,  mingled,  unrepress’d. 

Apart  from  place,  withholding  time. 

But  flattering  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Black  the  garden-bowers  and  grots 
Slumber’d  : the  solemn  palms  were  ranged 
Above,  unwoo’d  of  summer  wind : 

A sudden  splendor  from  behind 
Flush’d  all  the  leaves  with  rich  gold-green, 
And,  flowing  rapidly  between 


Adown  the  Tigris  I was  borne, 

By  Bagdat’s  shrines  of  fretted  gold. 


ODE  TO 

^Their  interspaces,  counterchanged 
The  level  lake  with  diamond-plots 
Of  dark  and  bright.  A lovely  time, 

For  it  was  in  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Dark-blue  the  deep  sphere  overhead, 
Distinct  with  vivid  stars  inlaid, 

Grew  darker  from  that  under-flame  : 

So,  leaping  lightly  from  the  boat, 

With  silver  anchor  left  afloat, 

In  marvel  whence  that  glory  came 
Upon  me,  as  in  sleep  I sank 
In  cool  soft  turf  upon  the  bank. 

Entranced  with  that  place  and  time. 

So  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Thence  thro’  the  garden  I was  drawn  — 

A realm  of  pleasance,  many  a mound. 

And  many  a shadow-chequer’d  lawn 
Full  of  the  city’s  stilly  sound. 

And  deep  myrrh-thickets  blowing  round 
The  stately  cedar,  tamarisks. 

Thick  rosaries  of  scented  thorn. 

Tall  orient  shrubs,  and  obelisks 
Graven  with  emblems  of  the  time. 

In  honor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

With  dazed  vision  unawares 
From  the  long  alley’s  latticed  shade 
Emerged,  I came  upon  the  great 
Pavilion  of  the  Caliphat. 

Right  to  the  carven  cedarn  doors. 

Flung  inward  over  spangled  floors. 
Broad-based  flights  of  marble  stairs 
Ran  up  with  golden  balustrade. 

After  the  fashion  of  the  time. 

And  humor  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

The  fourscore  windows  all  alight 
As  with  the  quintessence  of  flame, 

A million  tapers  flaring  bright 
From  twisted  silvers  look’d  to  shame 
The  hollow-vaulted  dark,  and  stream’d 
Upon  the  mooned  domes  aloof 
In  inmost  Bagdat,  till  there  seem’d 
Hundreds  of  crescents  on  the  roof 
Of  night  new-risen,  that  marvellous  time, 
To  celebrate  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Then  stole  I up,  and  trancedly 
Gazed  on  the  Persian  girl  alone. 

Serene  with  argent-lidded  eyes 
Amorous,  and  lashes  like  to  rays 
Of  darkness,  and  a brow  of  pearl 
Iressed  with  redolent  ebony. 

In  many  a dark  delicious  curl, 

Flowing  beneath  her  rose-hued  zone  ; 

The  sweetest  lady  of  the  time. 

Well  worthy  of  the  golden  prime 
Of  good  Haroun  Alraschid. 

Six  columns,  three  on  either  side. 

Pure  silver,  underpropt  a rich 


MEMORY.  5 

Throne  of  the  massive  ore,  from  which 
Down-droop’d,  in  many  a floating  fold, 
Engarlanded  and  diaper’d 
With  inwrought  flowers,  a cloth  of  gold. 
Thereon,  his  deep  eye  laughter-stirr’d 
With  merriment  of  kingly  pride. 

Sole  star  of  all  that  place  and  time, 

I saw  him  — in  his  golden  prime. 

The  Good  Haroun  Alraschid  ! 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 


Thou  who  stealest  fire. 

From  the  fountains  of  the  past. 

To  glorify  the  present ; oh,  haste, 

Visit  my  low  desire  ! 

Strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  ! 

I faint  in  this  obscurity. 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

2. 

Come  not  as  thou  earnest  of  late, 

Flinging  the  gloom  of  yesternight 
On  the  white  day  ; but  robed  in  soften’d  light 
Of  orient  state. 

Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist, 
Even  as  a maid,  whose  stately  brow 
The  dew-impearled  winds  ofdawn  have  kiss’d, 
When  she,  as  thou. 

Stays  on  her  floating  locks  the  lovely  freight 
Of  overflowing  blooms,  and  earliest  shoots 
Of  orient  green,  giving  safe  pledge  of  fruits. 
Which  in  wintertide  shall  star 
The  black  earth  with  brilliance  rare. 

3. 

Whilome  thou  earnest  with  the  morning  mist. 
And  with  the  evening  cloud. 

Showering  thy  gleaned  wealth  into  my  open 
breast, 

(Those  peerless  flowers  which  in  the  rudest 
wind 

Never  grow  sere. 

When  rooted  in  the  garden  of  the  mind. 
Because  they  are  the  earliest  of  the  year). 
Nor  was  the  night  thy  shroud. 

In  sweet  dreams  softer  than  unbroken  rest 
Thou  leddest  by  the  hand  thine  infant  Hope. 
The  eddying  of  her  garments  caught  from  thee 
The  light  of  thy  great  presence;  and  the  cope 
Of  the  half-attain’d  futurity. 

Though  deep  not  fathomless. 

Was  cloven  with  the  million  stars  which 
tremble 

O’er  the  deep  mind  of  dauntless  infancy. 
Small  thought  was  there  of  life’s  distress  ; 
For  sure  she  deem’d  no  mist  of  earth  could 
dull 

Those  spirit  thrilling  eyes  sokeenandbeauti' 
ful : 

Sure  she  was  nigher  to  heaven’s  spheres. 
Listening  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years. 

O strengthen  me,  enlighten  me  I 


6 SONG.  — A DELINE. 


I faint  in  this  obscurity, 

Thou  dewy  dawn  of  memory. 

4- 

Come  forth  I charge  thee,  arise, 

Thou  of  the  many  tongues,  the  myriad  eyes ! 
Thou  comest  not  with  shows  of  flaunting  vines 
Unto  mine  inner  eye, 

Divinest  Memory! 

Thou  wert  not  nursed  by  the  waterfall 
Which  ever  sounds  and  shines 

A pillar  of  white  light  upon  the  wall 
Of  purple  cliffs,  aloof  descried  : 

Come  from  the  woods  that  belt  the  gray  hill- 
side. 

The  seven  elms,  the  poplars  four 
That  stand  beside  my  father’s  door. 

And  chiefly  from  the  brook  that  loves 
To  purl  o’er  matted  cress  and  ribbed  sand, 
Or  dimple  in  the  dark  of  rushy  coves. 
Drawing  into  his  narrow  earthen  um, 

In  every  elbow  and  turn. 

The  filter’d  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland. 

O ! hither  lead  thy  feet ! 

Pour  round  mine  ears  the  livelong  bleat 
Of  the  thick-fleeced  sheep  from  wattled  folds, 
Upon  the  ridged  wolds, 

When  the  first  matin-song  hath  waken’d  loud 
Over  the  dark  dewy  earth  forlorn. 

What  time  the  amber  morn 
F orth  gushes  from  beneath  a low-hung  cloud. 

5- 

Large  dowries  doth  the  raptured  eye 
To  the  young  spirit  present 
When  first  she  is  wed  ; 

And  like  a bride  of  old 
In  triumph  led. 

With  music  and  sweet  showers 
Of  festal  flowers, 

Unto  the  dwelling  she  must  sway. 
Well  hast  thou  done,  great  artist  Memory, 

In  setting  round  thy  first  experiment 
With  royal  frame-work  of  wrought  gold; 
Needs  must  thou  dearly  love  thy  first  essay, 
And  foremost  in  thy  various  gallery 
Place  it,  where  sweetest  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  storied  walls  ; 

For  the  discovery 

And  newmess  of  thine  art  so  pleased  thee. 
That  all  which  thou  hast  drawn  of  fairest 
Or  boldest  since,  but  lightly  weighs 
With  thee  unto  the  love  thou  bearest 
The  first-born  of  thy  genius.  Artist-like, 
Ever  retiring  thou  dost  gaze 
On  the  prime  labor  of  thine  eply  days ; 

No  matter  what  the  sketch  might  be  ; 
Whether  the  high  field  on  the  bushless  Pike, 
Or  even  a sand-built  ridge 
Of  heaped  hills  that  mound  the  sea. 
Overblown  with  murmurs  harsh, 

Or  even  a lowly  cottage  w'hence  we  see 
Stretch’d  wide  and  wild  the  waste  enormous 
marsh. 

Where  from  the  frequent  bridge. 

Like  emblems  of  infinity. 

The  trenched  waters  run  from  sky  to  sky  ; 


Or  a garden  bower’d  close 
With  plaited  alleys  of  the  trailing  rose. 
Long  alleys  falling  down  to  twilight  grots, 
Or  opening  upon  level  plots 
Of  crowned  lilies,  standing  near 
Purple-spiked  lavender : 

Whither  in  after  life  retired 
From  brawling  storms. 

From  weary  wind. 

With  youthful  fancy  reinspired. 

We  may  hold  converse  with  all  forms 
Of  the  many-sided  mind, 

And  those  whom  passion  hath  not  blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted,  myriad-minded. 

My  friend,  with  you  to  live  alone. 

Were  how  much  better  than  to  own 
A crown,  a sceptre,  and  a throne  ! 

0 strengthen  me,  enlighten  me ! 

1 faint  in  this  obscurity. 

Thou  dewy  dawm  of  memory. 


SONG. 


A .SPIRIT  haunts  the  year’s  last  hours 
Dwelling  amid  these  yellowing  bowers : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 

For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly. 

At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh 
In  the  walks; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks 
Of  the  mouldering  flowers  : 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i’  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hush’d,  and  close. 

As  a sick  man’s  room  when  he  taketh  repose 
An  hour  before  death  ; 

My  very  heart  faints  and  my  whole  soul 
grieves 

At  the  moist  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves. 
And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath. 
And  the  year’s  last  rose. 

Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sunflower 
Over  its  grave  i’  the  earth  so  chilly, 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock. 

Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


ADELINE. 


Mystery  of  mysteries. 

Faintly  smiling  Adeline, 

Scarce  of  earth  nor  all  divine, 

Nor  unhappy,  nor  at  rest. 

But  beyond  expression  fair 
With  thy  floating  flaxen  hair  ; 
Thy  rose-lips  and  full  blue  eyes 

* Take  the  heart  from  out  my  breast 


A CHARACTER,  — THE  POET. 


7 


Wherefore  those  dim  looks  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline? 


Whence  that  aery  bloom  of  thine, 

Like  a lily  which  the  sun 
Looks  thro’  in  his  sad  decline, 

And  a rose-bush  leans  upon. 

Thou  that  faintly  smilest  still, 

As  a Naiad  in  a well, 

Looking  at  the  set  of  day, 

Or  a phantom  two  hours  old 
Of  a maiden  past  away. 

Ere  the  placid  lips  be  cold? 

Wherefore  those  faint  smiles  of  thine, 
Spiritual  Adeline? 

3- 

What  hope  or  fear  or  joy  is  thine? 

Who  talketh  with  thee,  Adeline  ? 

For  sure  thou  art  not  all  alone  : 

Do  beating  hearts  of  salient  springs 
Keep  measuie  with  thine  own  ? 

Hast  thou  heard  the  butterflies 
What  they  say  betwixt  their  wings? 
Or  in  stillest  evenings 
With  what  voice  the  violet  woos 
To  his  heart  the  silver  dews  ? 

Or  when  little  airs  arise. 

How  the  merry  bluebell  rings 
To  the  mosses  underneath  ? 

Hast  thou  look’d  upon  the  breath 
Of  the  lilies  at  sunrise? 

Wherefore  that  faint  smile  of  thine, 
Shadowy,  dreaming  Adeline  ? 

4- 

Some  honey-converse  feeds  thy  mind, 
Some  spirit  of  a crimson  rose 
In  love  with  thee  forgets  to  close 
His  curtains,  wasting  odorous  sighs 
All  night  long  on  darkness  blind. 

What  aileth  thee  ? whom  waitest  thou 
With  thy  soften’d,  shadow’d  brow. 

And  those  dew-lit  eyes  of  thine. 
Thou  faint  smiler,  Adeline  ? 

5- 

Lovest  thou  the  doleful  wind 

When  thou  gazest  at  the  skies? 
Doth  the  low-tongued  Orient 
Wander  from  the  side  of  the  mom. 
Dripping  with  Sabaean  spice 
On  thy  pillow,  lowly  bent 

With  melodious  airs  lovelorn. 
Breathing  Light  against  thy  face. 
While  his  locks  a-dropping  twined 
Round  thy  neck  in  subtle  ring 
Make  a carcanet  of  rays. 

And  ye  talk  together  still. 

In  the  language  wherewith  Spring 
Letters  cowslips  on  the  hill  ? 
Hence  that  look  ajid  smile  of  thine. 
Spiritual  Adeline. 


A CHARACTER. 

With  a half-glance  upon  the  sky 
At  night  he  said,  “ The  wanderings 
Of  this  most  intricate  Universe 
Teach  me  the  nothingness  of  things.’* 

Yet  could  not  all  creation  pierce 
Beyond  the  bottom  of  his  eye. 

He  spake  of  beauty  : that  the  dull 
Saw  no  divinity  in  grass. 

Life  in  dead  stones,  or  spirit  in  air  ; 

Then  looking  as  ’t  were  in  a glass. 

He  smooth’d  his  chin  and  sleek’d  his  hair, 
And  said  the  earth  was  beautiful. 

He  spake  of  virtue  : not  the  gods 
More  purely,  when  they  wish  to  charm 
Pailas  and  Juno  sitting  by  : 

And  with  a sweeping  of  the  arm. 

And  a lack-lustre  dead-blue  eye. 

Devolved  his  rounded  periods. 

Most  delicately  hour  by  hour 
He  canvass’d  human  mysteries. 

And  trod  on  silk,  as  if  the  winds 
Blew  his  own  praises  in  his  eyes. 

And  stood  aloof  from  other  minds 
In  impotence  of  fancied  power. 

With  lips  depress’d  as  he  were  meek. 
Himself  unto  himself  he  sold  : 

Upon  himself  himself  did  feed : 

Quiet,  dispassionate,  and  cold. 

And  other  than  his  form  of  creed. 

With  chisell’d  features  clear  and  sleek. 


THE  POET. 

The  poet  in  a golden  clime  was  born. 

With  golden  stars  above  ; 

Dower’d  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of 
scorn, 

The  love  of  love. 

He  saw  thro’  life  and  death,  thro’  good  and  ill 
He  saw  thro’  his  own  soul. 

The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will. 

An  open  scroll. 

Before  him  lay  : with  echoing  feet  he  threaded 
The  secretest  walks  of  fame  : 

The  viewless  arrows  of  his  thoughts  were 
headed 

And  wing’d  with  flame. 

Like  Indian  reeds  blown  from  his  silver 
tongue. 

And  of  so  fierce  a flight. 

From  Calpe  unto  Caucasus  they  sung. 
Filling  with  light 

And  vagrant  melodies  the  winds  which  bore 
Them  earthward  till  they  lit ; 

Then,  like  the  arrow-seeds  of  the  field  flow^er, 
The  fruitful  wit 


8 THE  POETS  MIND.- 

Cleaving,  took  root,  and  springing  forth  anew, 
Where’er  they  fell,  behold, 

Like  to  the  mother  plant  in  semblance,  grew 
A flower  all  gold. 

And  bravely  furnish’d  all  abroad  to  fling 
The  winded  shafts  of  truth, 

To  throng  with  stately  blooms  the  breath- 
ing spring 

Of  Hope  and  Youth. 

So  many  minds  did  gird  their  orbs  with 
beams, 

Tho’  one  did  fling  the  fire. 

Heaven  flow’d  upon  the  soul  in  many  dreams 
Of  high  desire. 

Thus  truth  was  multiplied  on  truth,  the 
world 

Like  one  great  garden  show’d. 

And  thro’  the  wreaths  of  floating  dark  up- 
curl’ d. 

Rare  sunrise  flow’d. 

And  Freedom  rear’d  in  that  august  sunrise 
Her  beautiful  bold  brow, 

When  rites  and  forms  before  his  burning 
eyes 

Melted  like  snow. 

There  was  no  blood  upon  her  maiden  robes 
Sunn’d  by  those  orient  skies  : 

But  round  al?out  the  circles  of  the  globes 
Of  her  keen  eyes 

And  in  her  raiment’s  hem  was  traced  in  flame 
Wisdom,  a name  to  shake 
All  evil  dreams  of  power,  — a sacred  name. 
And  when  she  spake. 

Her  words  did  gather  thunder  as  they  ran, 
And  as  the  lightning  to  the  thunder 
Which  follows  it,  riving  the  spirit  of  man, 
Making  earth  wonder, 

So  was  their  meaning  to  her  words.  No 
sword 

Of  wrath  her  right  arm  whirl’d, 

But  one  poor  poet’s  scroll,  and  with  his  word 
She  shook  the  world. 


THE  POET’S  MIND. 


Vex  not  thou  the  poet’s  mind 
With  thy  shallow  wit : 

Vex  not  thou  the  poet’s  mind  ; 

For  thou  canst  not  fathom  it. 

Clear  and  bright  it  should  be  ever, 
Flowing  like  a crystal  river  ; 

Bright  as  light,  and  clear  as  wind. 

2. 

Dark-brow’d  sophist,  come  not  anear  ; 
All  the  place  is  holy  ground ; 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Hollow  smile  and  frozen  sneer 
Come  not  here. 

Holy  water  will  I pour 
Into  every  spicy  flower 
Of  the  laurel-shrubs  that  hedge  it  around. 
The  flowers  would  faint  at  your  cruel  cheer. 
In  your  eye  there  is  death. 

There  is  frost  in  your  breath 
Which  would  blight  the  plants. 

Where  you  stand  you  cannot  hear 
From  the  groves  within 
The  wild-bird’s  din. 

In  the  heart  of  the  garden  the  merry  bird 
chants. 

It  would  fall  to  the  ground  if  you  came  in. 

In  the  middle  leaps  a fountain 
Like  sheet  lightning. 

Ever  brightening 
With  a low  melodious  thunder  ; 

All  day  and  all  night  it  is  ever  drawn 
From  the  brain  of  the  purple  mountain 
Which  stands  in  the  distance  yonder : 

It  springs  on  a level  of  bowery  lawn, 

And  the  mountain  draws  it  from  Heaven 
above. 

And  it  sings  a song  of  undying  love  ; 

And  yet,  tho’  its  voice  be  so  clear  and  full. 
You  never  would  hear  it ; your  ears  are  so 
dull ; 

So  keep  where  you  are  : you  are  foul  with  sin  ; 
It  would  shrink  to  the  earth  if  you  came  in. 


THE  SEA-FAIRIES. 

Slow  sail’d  the  w-eary  mariners  and  saw. 

Betwixt  the  green  brink  and  the  running 
foam. 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms 
prest 

To  little  harps  of  gold  ; and  while  they 
mused. 

Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear. 

Shrill  music  reach’d  them  on  the  middle 
sea. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither  away  ? 
fly  no  more. 

Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field,  and 
the  happy  blossoming  shore  ? 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain 
calls  ; 

Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  : 

Out  of  the  live-green  heart  of  the  dells 
They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells. 

And  thick  with  white  bells  the  clover-hill 
swells 

High  over  the  full-toned  sea  : 

O hither,  come  hither  and  furl  your  sails. 
Come  hither  to  me  and  to  me  : 

Hither,  come  hither  and  frolic  and  play  ; 
Here  it  is  only  the  mew  that  wails ; 

We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  : 

Mariner,  mariner,  furl  your  sails, 

For  here  are  the  blissful  downs  and  dales. 
And  merrily  merrily  carol  the  gales, 

And  the  spangle  dances  in  bight  and  bay, 


“ Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side.” 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE.  — THE  DYING  SWAN.  — A DIRGE.  9 


And  the  rainbow  forms  and  flies  on  the  land 
Over  the  islands  free  ; 

And  the  rainbow  lives  in  the  curve  of  the 
sand ; 

Hither,  come  hither  and  see  ; 

And  the  rainbow  hangs  on  the  poising  wave, 
And  sweet  is  the  color  of  cove  and  cave, 

And  sweet  shall  your  welcome  be  : 

O hither,  come  hither,  and  be  our  lords 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet 
words : 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  jubilee  : 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden 
chords 

Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 

Who  can  light  on  as  happy  a shore 
All  the  world  o’er,  all  the  world  o’er? 
Whither  away?  listen  and  stay:  mariner, 
mariner,  fly  no  more. 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 


Life  and  Thought  have  gone  away 
Side  by  side. 

Leaving  door  and  windows  wide  : 
Careless  tenants  they  ! 

2, 

All  within  is  dark  as  night : 

In  the  windows  is  no  light ; 

And  no  murmur  at  the  door, 

So  frequent  on  its  hinge  before. 

3. 

Close  the  door,  the  shutters  close. 

Or  thro’  the  windows  we  shall  see 
The  nakedness  and  vacancy 
Of  the  dark  deserted  house. 

4* 

Come  away  : no  more  of  mirth 

Is  here  or  merry-making  sound. 

The  house  was  builded  of  the  earth. 

And  shall  fall  again  to  ground. 

5- 

Come  away  : for  Life  and  Thought 
Here  no  longer  dwell ; 

But  in  a city  glorious  — 

A great  arid  distant  city  — have  bought 
A mansion  incorruptible. 

Would  they  could  have  stayed  with  us  ! 


THE  DYING  SWAN. 


The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare. 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air. 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under- roof  of  doleful  gray. 


With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 

Adown  it  floated  a dying  swan. 

And  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 

Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went. 

2. 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose. 

And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky. 

Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept. 

And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow. 

Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will. 

And  far  thro’  the  marish  green  and  still 
The  tangled  water-courses  slept. 

Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

3. 

The  wild  swan’s  death-hymn  took  the  soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow  : at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low,  and  full  and  clear  ; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky. 

Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole  ; 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear 
But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice. 

With  a music  strange  and  manifold, 

Flow’d  forth  on  a carol  free  and  bold  ; 

As  when  a mighty  people  rejoice 
With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps 
of  gold. 

And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  roll’d 
Thro’  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening 
star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering 
weeds, 

’And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank. 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 
And  the  wave- worn  horns  of  the  echoingbanVi* 
And  the  silvery  marish-flowers  that  thronj; 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among. 

Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 


A DIRGE. 


Now  is  done  thy  long  day’s  work ; 
Fold  thy  paln.s  across  thy  breast, 
Fold  thine  aims,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 

Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave, 
Let  them  rave. 

2. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander  ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 

Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


/ 


lo  LOVE  AND  DEATH.  — THE  BALLAD  OF  OKI  ANA. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  ORIANA. 


3* 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed  ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 

Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave 
Let  them  rave. 

4- 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee  ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 
Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor’s  tear. 
Let  them  rave. 

Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave 
Let  them  rave. 

5. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep, 
Bramble-roses,  faint  and  pale, 

And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 

These  in  every  shower  creep 
Thro’  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

6. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine  ; 

The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broidry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 

Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 

As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

7- 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there  ; 
God’s  great  gift  of  speech  abused  • 
Makes  thy  memory  confused : 

But  let  them  rave. 

The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering 
light 

Love  paced  the  thyiny  plots  of  Paradise, 

And  all  about  him  rob’d  his  lustrous  eyes ; 
When,  turning  round  a cassia,  full  in  view 
Death,  walking  all  alone  beneath  a yew. 

And  talking  to  himself,  first  met  his  sight : 

“ You  must  begone,”  said  Death,  “ these 
walks  are  mine.” 

Love  wept  and  spread  his  sheeny  vans  for 
flight ; 

Yet  ere  he  parted  said,  ” This  hour  is  thine  : 
Thou  art  the  shadow  of  life,  and  as  the  tree 
Stands  in  the  sun  and  shadows  all  beneath, 
So  in  the  light  of  great  eternity 
Life  eminent  creates  the  shade  of  death  ; 

The  shadow  passeth  when  the  tree  shall  fall. 
But  I shall  reign  forever  over  all.” 


My  heart  is  wasted  with  my  woe, 

Oriana. 

There  is  no  rest  for  me  below, 

Oriana. 

When  the  long  dun  wolds  are  ribb’d  with 
snow, 

And  loud  the  Norland  whirlwinds  blow, 
Oriana, 

Alone  I wander  to  and  fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere  the  light  on  dark  was  growing, 

Oriana, 

At  midnight  the  cock  was  crowing, 

Oriana  : 

Winds  were  blowing,  waters  flowing, 

We  heard  the  steeds  to  battle  going, 

Oriana  ; 

Aloud  the  hollow  bugle  blowing, 

Oriana. 

In  the  yew-wood  black  as  night, 

Oriana, 

Ere  I rode  into  the  fight, 

Oriana, 

While  blissful  tears  blinded  my  sight 

By  star-shine  and  by  moonlight, 

Oriana, 

I to  thee  my  troth  did  plight, 

Oriana. 

She  stood  upon  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana  : 

She  watch’d  my  crest  among  them  all, 

Oriana : 

She  saw  me  fight,  she  heard  me  call. 

When  forth  there  stept  a foeman  tall, 

Oriana, 

Atween  me  and  the  castle  wall, 

Oriana. 

The  bitter  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 

The  false,  false  arrow  went  aside, 

Oriana  : 

The  damned  arrow  glanced  aside. 

And  pierced  thy  heart,  my  love,  my  bride, 
Oriana  I 

Thy  heart,  my  life,  my  love,  my  bride, 

Oriana  ! 

Oh ! narrow,  narrow  was  the  space, 

Oriana. 

Loud,  loud  rung  out  the  bugle’s  brays, 
Oriana. 

Oh  ! deathful  stabs  were  dealt  apace. 

The  battle  deepen’d  in  its  place, 

Oriana  ; 

But  I was  down  upon  my  face, 

Oriana. 

They  should  have  stabb’d  me  where  I lay, 
Oriana ! 

How  could  I rise  and  come  away, 

Oriana  ? 

How  could  I look  upon  the  day  ? 


CIRCUMSTA NCR.  — THE  MERMAN.  — THE  MERMA ID.  n 

They  should  have  stabb’d  me  where  I lay, 

2. 

Oriana  — 

I would  be  a merman  bold ; 

They  should  have  trod  me  into  clay, 

I would  sit  and  sing  the  whole  of  the  day ; 

Oriana. 

I would  fill  the  sea-halls  with  a voice  of 

O breaking  heart  that  will  not  break, 

power ; 

But  at  night  I would  roam  abroad  and  play 

Oriana ! 

With  the  mermaids  in  and  out  of  the  rocks. 

0 pale,  pale  face  so  sweet  and  meek. 

Dressing  their  hair  with  the  white  sea- 

Oriana ! 

flower  ; 

Thou  smilest,  but  thou  dost  not  speak, 

And  holding  them  back  by  their  flowing 

And  then  the  tears  run  down  my  cheek. 

locks 

Oriana  : 

I would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea, 

What  wantest  thou  ? whom  dost  thou  seek, 

And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss’d  me 

Oriana  ? 

Laughingly,  laughingly ; 

I cry  aloud  : none  hear  my  cries. 

And  then  we  would  wander  away,  away 

To  the  pale-green  sea-groves  straight  and 

Oriana. 

high. 

Thou  comest  atween  me  and  the  skies, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily. 

Oriana. 

I feel  the  tears  of  blood  arise 

3- 

Up  from  my  heart  unto  my  eyes. 

There  would  be  neither  moon  nor  star  ; 

Oriana. 

But  the  wave  would  make  music  above  us 

Within  thy  heart  my  arrow  lies. 

afar  — 

Oriana. 

Low  thunder  and  light  in  the  magic  night  — 

O cursed  hand  ! O cursed  blow  ! 

Neither  moon  nor  star. 

We  would  call  aloud  in  the  dreamy  dells. 

Oriana  ! 

Call  to  each  other  and  whoop  and  cry 

O happy  thou  that  liest  low, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily  ; 

Oriana  ! 

They  would  pelt  me  with  starry  spangles 

All  night  the  silence  seems  to  flow 

and  shells. 

Beside  me  in  my  utter  woe, 

Laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  be- 

Oriana. 

tw'een. 

A weary,  weary  way  I go, 

All  night,  merrily,  merrily : 

Oriana. 

But  I would  throw  to  them  back  in  mine 

When  Norland  winds  pipe  down  the  sea. 

Turkis  and  agate  and  almondine 

Then  leaping  out  upon  them  unseen 

Oriana, 

I walk,  I dare  not  think  of  thee, 

I would  kiss  them  often  under  the  sea. 

And  kiss  them  again  till  they  kiss’d  me 

Oriana. 

Laughingly,  laughingly. 

Thou  liest  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

Oh  ! what  a happy  life  were  mine 

I dare  not  die  and  come  to  thee. 

Under  the  hollow-hung  ocean  green  ! 

Oriana. 

Soft  are  the  moss-beds  under  the  sea ; 

I hear  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

We  would  live  merrily,  merrily. 

Oriana. 

CIRCUMSTANCE. 

THE  MERMAID. 

I. 

Two  children  in  two  neighbor  villages 

Who  w'ould  be 

Playing  mad  pranks  along  the  healthy  leas ; 

A mermaid  fair. 

Two  strangers,  meeting  at  a festival ; 

Singing  alone. 

Two  lovers  whispering  by  an  orchard  wall  ; 

Combing  her  hair 

Two  lives  bound  fast  in  one  with  golden  ease  ; 

Under  the  sea. 

Two  graves  grass-green  beside  a gray  church- 

In  a golden  curl 

tower. 

Wash’d  with  still  rains  and  daisy-blossomed ; 

With  a comb  of  pearl. 

On  a throne  ? 

Two  children  in  one  hamlet  born  and  bred  ; 

So  runs  the  round  of  life  from  hour  to  hour. 

2. 



I would  be  a mermaid  fair  : 

THE  MERMAN. 

I would  sing  to  myself  the  whole  of  the 
day ; 

1. 

With  a comb  of  pearl  I would  comb  my 

Who  would  be 

hair ; 

A merman  bold, 

And  still  as  I comb’d  I would  sing  and 

Sitting  alone. 

say, 

“ Who  is  It  loves  me  ? who  loves  not  me  ? ” 

Singing  alone 

Under  the  sea. 

With  a crown  of  gold, 

I would  comb  my  hair  till  my  ringlets 

would  fall. 

On  a throne  ? 

Low  adown,  low  adown. 

12  SONNET  TO  y.  M.  K.  — THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


From  under  my  starry  sea-bud  crown 
Low  adown  and  around, 

And  I should  look  like  a fountain  of  gold 
Springing  alone 
With  a shrill  inner  sound, 

Over  the  throne 
In  the  midst  of  the  hall : 

Till  that  great  sea-snake  under  the  sea 

From  his  coiled  sleeps  in  the  central  deeps 

Would  slowly  trail  himself  sevenlold 

Round  the  hall  where  I sate,  and  look  in  at 
the  gate 

With  his  large  calm  eyes  for  the  love  of  me. 

And  all  the  mermen  under  the  sea 

Would  feel  their  immortality 

Die  in  their  hearts  for  the  love  of  me. 

3- 

But  at  night  I would  wander  away,  away, 

I would  fling  on  each  side  my  low-flowing 
locks, 

And  lightly  vault  from  the  throne  and  play 
With  the  mermen  in  and  out  of  the  rocks ; 

We  would  run  to  and  fro,  and  hide  and  seek. 
On  the  broad  sea- wolds  in  the  crimson 
shells, 

Whose  silvery  spikes  are  nighest  the  sea. 

But  if  any  came  near  I would  call,  and  shriek, 

And  adown  the  steep  like  a wave  I would 
leap 

From  the  diamond-ledges  that  jut  from  the 
dells ; 

For  I would  not  be  kiss’d  by  all  who  would 
list. 

Of  the  bold  merry  mermen  under  the  sea ; 

They  would  sue  me,  and  woo  me,  and  flatter 
me, 


In  the  purple  twilights  under  the  sea  ; 

But  the  king  of  them  all  would  carry  me. 
Woo  me,  and  win  me,  and  marry  me. 

In  the  branching  jaspers  under  the  sea; 
Then  all  the  dry  pied  things  that  be 
In  the  hueless  mosses  under  the  sea 
Would  curl  round  my  silver  feet  silently. 

All  looking  up  for  the  love  of  me. 

And  if  I should  carol  aloud,  from  aloft 
All  things  that  are  forked,  and  horned,  and 
soft 

Would  lean  out  from  the  hollow  sphere  of 
the  sea. 

All  looking  down  for  the  love  of  me. 


SONNET  TO  J.  M.  K. 

My  hope  and  heart  is  with  thee  — thou  wilt 
be 

A latter  Luther,  and  a soldier-priest 
To  scare  church-harpies  from  the  master’s 
feast ; 

Our  dusted  velvets  have  much  need  of  thee ; 
Thou  art  no  sabbath-drawler  of  old  saws, 
Distill’d  from  some  worm-canker’d  homily ; 
But  spurr’d  at  heart  with  fieriest  energy 
To  embattail  and  to  wall  about  thy  cause 
With  iron- worded  proof,  haling  to  hark 
The  humming  of  the  drowsy  pulpit-drone 
Half  God’s  good  sabbath,  while  the  worn- 
out  clerk 

Brow-beats  his  desk  below.  Thou  from  a 
throne 

Mounted  in  heaven  wilt  shoot  into  the  dark 
Arrows  of  lightnings.  I will  stand  and  mark. 


POEMS. 

(published  1832.) 

[This  division  of  this  volume  was  published  in  the  winter  of  1832.  Some  of  the  poems 
have  been  considerably  altered.  Others  have  been  added,  which,  with  one  exception,  were 
written  in  1833.] 

THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

PART  I. 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

I'hat  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 

And  thro’  the  field  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-tower’d  Camelot ; 

And  up  and  down  the  people  go. 

Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below. 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten,  aspens  quiver. 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 


Thro’  the  wave  that  runs  forever 
By  the  island  in  the  river 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers. 
Overlook  a space  of  flowers. 

And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow-veil’d. 

Slide  the  heavy  barges  trail’d 
By  slow  horses  ; and  imhail’d 
The  shallop  flitteth  silken-sail’d 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot : 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 


The  curse  is  come  upon  me,’  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott.” 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river  winding  clearly, 

Down  to  tower’d  Camelot : 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy. 
Listening,  whispers,  “ ’T  is  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott.” 

PART  II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a whisper  say, 

A curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 
She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be. 
And  so  she  w'eaveth  steadily, 

And  little  other  care  hath  she. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  moving  thro*  a mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 

There  she  sees  the  highway  near 

Winding  down  to  Camelot : 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls. 

And  there  the  surly  village-churls. 

And  the  red  cloaks  of  market  girls. 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a troop  of  damsels  glad. 

An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad. 

Sometimes  a curly  shepherd-lad, 

Or  long-hair’d  page  in  crimson  clad. 

Goes  by  to  tower’d  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  thro’  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding  two  and  two : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror’s  magic  sights, 

For  often  thro*  the  silent  nights 
A funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights. 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot : 
Or  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 

Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed  ; 

” I am  half-sick  of  shadows,”  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  III. 

A BOW-SHOT  from  her  bower-eaves. 

He  rode  between  the  barley-sheaves. 
The  sun  came  dazzling  thro’  the  leaves, 
And  Hamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 

A redcross  knight  forever  kneeled 
To  a lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glitter’d  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 


Hung  in  the  golden  Galaxy. 

The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot : 
And  from  his  blazon’d  baldric  slung 
A mighty  silver  bugle  hung. 

And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung. 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick -jewell’d  shone  the  saddle-leather. 

The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together. 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

As  often  thro’  the  purple  night, 

Below  the  starry  clusters  bright. 

Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light. 

Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glow’d  ; 

On  burnish’d  hooves  his  war-horse  trode  ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flow’d 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flash’d  into  the  crystal  mirror, 

“ Tirra  lirra,”  by  the  river 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom, 

She  made  three  paces  thro’  the  room. 

She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom. 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume. 

She  look’d  down  to  Camelot. 

Out  flew  the  web  and  floated  wide  ; 

The  mirror  crack’d  from  side  to  side  ; 

“The  curse  is  come  upon  me,”  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning. 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  tower’d  Camelot ; 

Down  she  came  and  found  a boat 
Beneath  a willow  left  afloat. 

And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And  down  the  river’s  dim  expanse  — 

Like  some  bold  seer  in  a trance, 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance  — 

With  a glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Camelot. 

And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 

She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 

The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away, 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying,  robed  in  snowy  white 
That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right  - 
The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light  — 

Thro’  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot : 
And  as  the  boat-head  wound  along 
The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among. 

They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


14  IHAR/ANA  m 

Heard  a carol,  mournful,  holy, 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly. 

Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 

And  her  eyes  were  darken’d  wholly, 

Turn’d  to  tower’d  Camelot ; 

For  ere  she  reach’d  upon  the  tide 
The  first  house  by  the  water-side. 

Singing  in  her  song  she  died. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony. 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A gleaming  shape  she  floated  by, 

A corse  between  the  houses  high. 

Silent  into  Camelot. 

Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 

Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame. 

And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name, 

7'/ie  Lady  of  Shaloit, 

Who  is  this  ? and  what  is  here? 

And  in  the  lighted  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer  : 

And  they  cross’d  themselves  for  fear. 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot : 

But  Lancelot  mused  a little  space  : 

He  said,  “ She  has  a lovely  face  : 

God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.” 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  thro’  all  the  level  shines. 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat. 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines  : 

A faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right,  ^ 

An  empty  river-bed  before. 

And  shallows  on  a distant  shore, 

In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  “ Ave  Mary,”  made  she  moan. 

And  “ Ave  Mary,”  night  and  mom, 

And  ” Ah,”  she  sang,  ” to  be  all  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew. 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Thro’  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear. 
Still-lighted  in  a secret  shrine. 

Her  melancholy  eyes  divine. 

The  home  of  woe  without  a tear. 

And  “Ave  Mary,”  was  her  moan, 

“ Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn  ” ; 

And  “ Ah,”  she  sang,  “ to  be  all  alone. 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  past 
Into  deep  orange  o’er  the  sea. 

Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast. 

Before  Our  Lady  murmur’d  she  ; 
Complaining,  “ Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load.” 

And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glow’d 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 

“Is  this  the  form,”  she  made  her  moan, 
“ That  won  his  praises  night  and 
morn?” 


THE  SOUTH. 

And  “ Ah,”  she  said,  “but  I wake  alone, 
I sleep  forgotten,  i wake  forlorn.” 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat. 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 

But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat. 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 

Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again. 

And  seem’d  knee-deep  in  mountain  grass. 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 

And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a lower  moan. 
And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  mom, 
She  thought,  “My  spirit  is  here  alone. 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn.” 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a dream : 

She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 

She  woke  : the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  one  sick  willow  sere  and  small. 

The  river-bed  was  dusty-white  ; 

And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 

She  whisper’d,  with  a stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or  mom, 

“ Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten  and  die  forlorn.” 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 
Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth. 

For  “ Love,”  they  said,“  must  needs  be  true. 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth.” 

An  image  seem’d  to  pass  the  door. 

To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 

“But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away. 

So  be  alone  forevermore.” 

“ O cruel  heart,”  she  changed  her  tone, 
“ And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn. 
Is  this  the  end  to  be  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn  ! ” 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 
An  image  seem’d  to  pass  the  door. 

To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

, “ But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more.’* 

And  flaming  downward  over  all 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 

And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

“The  day  to  night,”  she  made  her  moan, 
“The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  morn. 
And  day  and  night  I am  left  alone 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 

At  eve  a dry  cicala  sung. 

There  came  a sound  as  of  the  sea ; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung. 

And  lean’d  upon  the  balcony. 

There  all  in  spaces  rosj^-bright 

Large  Hesper  glitter’d  on  her  tears. 

And  deepening  through  the  silent  spheres. 
Heaven  over  Heaven  rose  the  night. 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 
“The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not 
morn. 

When  I shall  cease  to  be  all  alone. 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 


ELEANORS. 


ELEANORE. 


Thy  dark  eyes  open’d  not. 

Nor  first  reveal’d  themselves  to  English  air, 
For  there  is  nothing  here. 

Which,  from  the  outward  to  the  inward 
brought, 

Moulded  thy  baby  thought. 

Far  off  from  human  neighborhood. 

Thou  wert  born,  on  a summer  mom, 

A mile  beneath  the  cedar-wood. 

Thy  bounteous  forehead  was  not  fann’d 
With  breezes  from  our  oaken  glades, 

But  thou  wert  nursed  in  some  delicious  land 
Of  lavish  lights,  and  floating  shades  : 
And  flattering  thy  childish  thought 
The  oriental  fairy  brought. 

At  the  moment  of  thy  birth. 

From  old  well-heads  of  haunted  rills, 

And  the  hearts  of  purple  hills. 

And  shadow’d  coves  on  a sunny  shore. 
The  choicest  wealth  of  all  the  earth, 
Jewel  or  shell,  or  starry  ore. 

To  deck  thy  cradle,  Eleanore. 

2. 

Or  the  yellow-banded  bees, 

Thro’  half-open  lattices 
Coming  in  the  scented  breeze. 

Fed  thee,  a child,  lying  alone, 

With  whitest  honey  in  fairy  gardens 
cull’d  — 

A glorious  child,  dreaming  alone. 

In  silk-soft  folds,  upon  yielding  down. 
With  the  hum  of  swarming  bees 

Into  dreamful  slumber  lull’d. 

3- 

Who  may  minister  to  thee  ? 

Summer  herself  should  minister 

To  thee,  with  fruitage  golden-rinded 
On  golden  salvers,  or  it  may  be. 
Youngest  Autumn,  in  a bower 
Grape-thicken’d  from  the  light,  and  blinded 
With  many  a deep-hued  bell-like  flower 
Of  fragrant  trailers,  when  the  air 
Sleepeth  over  all  the  heaven, 

And  the  crag  that  fronts  the  Even, 

All  along  the  shadowing  shore, 
Crimsons  over  an  inland  mere, 

Eleanore  ! 

4- 

How  may  full-sail’d  verse  express, 

How  may  measured  words  adore 
The  full-flowing  harmony 
Of  thy  swan-like  stateliness, 

Eleanore  ? 

The  luxuriant  symmetry 
Of  thy  floating  gracefulness, 

Eleanore  ? 

Every  turn  and  glance  of  thine. 

Every  lineament  divine, 

Eleanore, 

And  the  steady  sunset  glow. 

That  stays  upon  thee  ? For  in  thee 


Is  nothing  sudden,  nothing  single  : 
Like  two  streams  of  incense  free 
From  one  censer,  in  one  shrine, 
Thought  and  motion  mingle, 
Mingle  ever.  Motions  flow 
To  one  another,  even  as  tho’ 

They  were  modulated  so 
To  an  unheard  melody. 

Which  lives  about  thee,  and  a sweep 
Of  richest  pauses,  evermore 
Drawn  from  each  other  mellow-deep; 

Who  may  express  thee,  Eleanore? 

5- 

I stand  before  thee,  Eleanore  ; 

I see  thy  beauty  gradually  unfold, 

Daily  and  hourly,  more  and  more. 

I muse,  as  in  a trance,  the  while 
Slowly,  as  from  a cloud  of  gold. 

Comes  out  thy  deep  ambrosial  smile. 

I muse,  as  in  a trance,  whene’er 

The  languors  of  thy  love-deep  eyes 
Float  on  to  me.  I would  I were 
So  tranced,  so  rapt  in  ecstasies, 

To  stand  apart,  and  to  adore. 

Gazing  on  thee  forevermore. 

Serene,  imperial  Eleanore  1 

6. 

Sornetimes,  with  most  intensity 
Gazing,  I seem  to  see 

Thought  folded  over  thought,  smiling  asleep, 
Slowly  awaken’d,  grow  so  full  and  deep 
In  thy  large  eyes,  that,  overpower’d  quite, 

I cannot  veil,  or  droop  my  sight. 

But  am  as  nothing  in  its  light : 

As  tho’  a star,  in  inmost  heaven  set, 

Ev’n  while  we  gaze  on  it. 

Should  slowly  round  his  orb,  and  slowly 
grow 

To  a full  face,  there  like  a sun  remain 
Fix’d  — then  as  slowly  fade  again. 

And  draw  itself  to  what  it  was  before  ; 
So  full,  so  deep,  so  slow. 

Thought  seems  to  come  and  go 
In  thy  large  eyes,  imperial  Eleanore. 

7- 

As  thunder-clouds  that,  hung  on  high, 
Roof’d  the  world  with  doubt  and  fear. 
Floating  thro’  an  evening  atmosphere. 

Grow  golden  all  about  the  sky ; 

In  thee  all  passion  becomes  passionless. 
Touch’d  by  thy  spirit’s  mellowness, 

Losing  his  fire  and  active  might 
In  a silent  meditation. 

Falling  into  a still  delight. 

And  luxury  of  contemplation  ; 

As  waves  that  up  a quiet  cove 
Rolling  slide,  and  lying  still 
Shadow  forth  the  banks  at  will : 

Or  sometimes  they  swell  and  move. 
Pressing  up  against  the  land, 

With  motions  of  the  outer  sea  : 

And  the  self-same  influence 
Controlleth  all  the  soul  and  sense 
Of  Passion  gazing  upon  thee. 


i6  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER. 


His  bow-string  slacken’d,  languid  Love, 
Leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 

XVoops  both  his  wings,  regarding  thee, 
And  so  would  languish  evermore. 

Serene,  imperial  Eleanore. 

8. 

when  I see  thee  roam,  with  tresses  un- 
confined, 

V hile  the  amorous,  odorous  wind 

Breathes  low  between  the  sunset  and  the 
moon  ; 

Or,  in  a shadowy  saloon, 
silken  cushions  hah  reclined  ; 

I watch  thy  grace ; and  in  its  place 
My  heart  a charmed  slumber  keeps. 
While  I muse  upon  thy  face; 

And  a languid  fire  creeps 

Thro’  my  veins  to  all  my  frame, 
Dissolvingly  and  slowly  : soon 

From  thy  rose-red  lips  my  name 
Floweth  ; and  then,  as  in  a swoon. 

With  dinning  sound  my  ears  are  rife. 

My  tremulous  tongue  faltereth, 

I lose  my  color,  I lose  my  breath, 

I drink  the  cup  of  a costly  death, 
^rimm’d  with  delirious  draughts  of  warmest 
life. 

I die  with  my  delight,  before 
I hear  what  I would  hear  from  thee  ; 
Yet  tell  my  name  again  to  me, 

I would  be  dying  evermore. 

So  dying  ever,  Eleanore. 


THE  MILLER’S  DAUGHTER. 

I SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet. 

His  double  chin,  his  portly  size. 

And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget 
The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes? 

The  slow  wise  smile  that,  round  about 
His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curl’d. 

Seem’d  half-within  and  half-without. 

And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world? 

In  yonder  chair  I see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cuf-^' 

I see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 
At  his  own  jest  — gray  eyes  lit  up 

With  summer  lightnings  of  a soul 
So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 

So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear  and  whole. 
His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass  : give  me  one  kiss : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 

There’s  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 
Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 

There’s  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  Ffe, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 

Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife. 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I not  found  a happy  earth  ? 

I least  should  breathe  a thought  of  pain. 

Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 
I ’d  almost  live  my  life  agaio- 


So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk. 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine — - 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 
Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  the  long  and  listless  boy 
Late-left  an  orphan  of  the  squire. 

Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 
Looks  down  upo.n  the  village  spire  ; 

For  even  here,  where  I and  you 
Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long, 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  thro’ 

By  some  wild  skylark’s  matin  song. 

And  oft  I heard  the  tender  dove 
In  firry  woodlands  making  moan ; 

But  ere  I saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I had  no  motion  of  my  own. 

For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  play’d 
Before  I dream’d  that  pleasant  dream  — 
Still  hither  thither  idly  sway’d 
Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I lean’d  to  hear 
The  milldam  rushing  down  with  noise. 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 
In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise, 

The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 
Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones. 

Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 
In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that, 

W^hen  after  roving  in  the  woods 
(’T  was  April  then),  I came  and  sat 
Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 
Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 

I cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you. 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A love-song  I had  somewhere  read. 

An  echo  from  a measured  strain. 

Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 
From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 

It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes. 
The  phantom  of  a silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a riiousand  times. 

Then  leapt  a trout.  In  lazy  rnood 
I watch’d  the  little  circles  die  ; 

They  past  into  the  level  flood. 

And  there  a vision  caught  my  eye  ; 

The  reflex  of  a beauteous  form, 

A glowing  arm,  a gleaming  neck. 

As  when  a sunbeam  wavers  warm 
Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement’s  edge 
A long  green  box  of  mignonette, 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge  : 
And  when  I raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  tw'o  so  full  and  bright  — 
Such  eyes  ! I swear  to  you,  my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 


THE  MILLERS S DAUGHTER. 


I loved,  and  love  dispell’d  the  fear 
That  I should  die  an  early  death  ; 

For  love  possess’d  the  atmosphere, 

And  fill’d  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the  boy  ? 

For  I was  alter’d,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy, 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 
Thro’  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill. 

The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam. 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 

The  meal-sacks  on  the  whiten’d  floor. 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow, 

And  April’s  crescent  glimmer’d  cold, 

I saw  the  village  lights  below ; 

I knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 

From  off  the  wold  I came,  and  lay 
Upon  the  freshly-flower’d  slope. 

The  deep  brook  groan’d  beneath  the  mill : 
And  “by  that  lamp,”  I thought,  “she 
sits  ! ” 

The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleam’d  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 

“ O that  I were  beside  her  now ! 

0 will  she  answer  if  I call  'i 

O would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow. 

Sweet  Alice,  if  I told  her  all?  ” 

Sometimes  I saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind. 

Sometimes  I heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  cross’d  the  blind. 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light. 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darken’d  there. 

But  when  at  last  I dared  to  speak. 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May, 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 
Flush’d  like  the  coming  of  the  day ; 

And  so  it  w'as  — half-sly,  half-shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 
Although  I pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 
To  yield  consent  to  my  desire  : 

She  wish’d  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1 might  have  look’d  a little  higher  ; 

And  I was  young  — too  young  to  wed  : 

“ Yet  must  I love  her  for  your  sake  ; 

Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,”  she  said  : 

Her  eyelid  quiver’d  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I went  to  fetch  my  bride  : 

But,  Alice,  you  w’ere  ill  at  ease ; 

This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried. 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 


17 

I loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I knew  you  could  not  look  but  well  ; 

And  dews,  that  would  have  fall’n  in  tears, 

I kiss’d  away  before  they  fell. 

I watch’d  the  little  flutterings. 

The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see  ; 

She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things. 

And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me ; 

And  turning  look’d  upon  your  face, 

As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart, 

And  rose,  and,  with  a silent  grace 
Approaching,  press’d  you  heart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well  — but  sing  the  foolish  song 
I gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers — that  I may  seem. 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  mill-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 

It  is  the  miller’s  daughter. 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear. 

That  I would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  at  her  ear : ^ 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

1 ’d  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist. 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me. 

In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

1 ’d  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I would  be  the  necklace. 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs. 

And  I would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I scarce  should  be  unclasp’d  at  night. 

A trifle,  sweet  ! which  true  love  spells  — 
True  love  interprets  — right  alone. 

His  light  upon  the  letter  dwells. 

For  all  the  spirit  is  his  own. 

So,  if  I waste  words  now,  in  truth. 

You  must  blame  Love.  His  early  rage 
Had  force  to  make  me  rhyme  in  youth. 

And  makes  me  talk  too  much  in  age. 

And  now  those  vivid  hours  are  gone. 

Like  mine  own  life  to  me  thou  art. 

Where  Past  and  Present,  wound  in  one. 

Do  make  a garland  for  the  heart  : 

So  sing  that  other  song  I made, 

Half-anger’d  with  my  happy  lot. 

The  day,  when  in  the  chestnut  shade 
I found  the  blue  Forget-me-not. 

Love  that  hath  us  in  the  net. 

Can  he  pass,  and  we  forget  ? 

Many  suns  arise  and  set. 

Many  a chance  the  years  beget. 

Love  the  gift  is  Love  the  debt. 

Even  so. 


i8  FATIMA.- 

Love  is  hurt  with  jar  and  fret. 

Love  is  made  a vague  regret. 

Eyes  with  idle  tears  are  wet. 

Idle  habit  links  us  yet. 

What  is  love?  for  we  forget : 

Ah,  no  ! no  ! 

Look  thro*  mine  eyes  with  thine.  True  wife, 
Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine  ; 

My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  thro’  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 

Untouch’d  with  any  shade  of  years, 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 

They  have  not  shed  a many  tears. 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  : they  had  their  part 
Of  sorrow;  for  when  time  was  ripe. 

The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 

That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a want  unknown  before  ; 

Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.  The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 

Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  I have  found  in  thee  : 

But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear — who  wrought 
Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 

With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 
With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth. 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds  ; 

For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north. 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds. 

And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass. 
Touching  the  sullen  pool  below  : 

On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 
Is  dry  and  dewless.  Let  us  go. 


FATIMA. 

O Love,  Love,  Love  ! O withering  might ! 

0 sun,  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I strain  my  sight. 
Throbbing  thro’  all  thy  heat  and  light, 

Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 

Lo,  parch’d  and  wither’d,  deaf  and  blind, 
I whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind. 

Last  night  I wasted  hateful  hours 
Below  the  city’s  eastern  towers : 

1 thirsted  for  the  brooks,  the  showers  : 

I roll’d  among  the  tender  flowers : 

I crush’d  them  on  my  breast,  my  mouth  : 
I look’d  athwart  the  burning  drouth 
Of  that  long  desert  to  the  south. 

Last  night,  when  some  one  spoke  his  name. 
From  my  swift  blood  that  went  and  came 
A thousand  little  shafts  of  flame 
Were  shiver’d  in  my  narrow  frame. 

V O Love,  O fire  ! once  he  drew 


- CENONE. 

With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  thro* 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew. 

Before  he  mounts  the  hill,  I know 
He  cometh  quickly  : from  below 
Sweet  gales,  as  from  deep  gardens,  blow 
Before  him,  striking  on  my  brow. 

In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon. 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon, 
Faints  like  a dazzled  morning  moon. 

The  wind  sounds  like  a silver  wire. 

And  from  beyond  the  noon  a fire 
Is  pour’d  upon  the  hills,  and  nigher 
The  skies  stoop  down  in  their  desire  ; 

And,  isled  in  sudden  seas  of  light, 

My  heart,  pierced  thro’  with  fierce  delight. 
Bursts  into  blossom  in  his  sight. 

My  whole  soul  waiting  silently. 

All  naked  in  a sultry  sky, 

Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye  : 

I ivill  possess  him  or  will  die. 

I will  grow  round  him  in  his  place, 

Grow,  live,  die  looking  on  his  face. 

Die,  dying  clasp’d  in  his  embrace. 


CENONE. 

There  lies  a vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 

The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to 
pine. 

And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.  On  either  hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them 
roars 

The  long  brook  falling  thro’  the  clov’n  ravine 
In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 
Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning  : but  in 
front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 
Troas  and  Ilion’s  column’d  citadel. 

The  crown  of  Troas. 

Hither  came  aPnoon 
Mournful  CEnone,  wandering  forlorn 
Of  Paris,  once  her  playmate  on  the  hills. 
Her  cheek  had  lost  the  rose,  and  round  her 
neck 

Floated  her  hair  or  seem’d  to  float  in  rest. 
She,  leaning  on  a fragment  twined  with  vine, 
Sang  to  the  stillness,  till  the  mountain-shade 
Sloped  downward  to  her  seat  from  the  upper 
cliff. 

“ O mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

For  now  the  noonday  quiet  holds  the  hill  : 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass  : 

The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone. 
Rests  like  a shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop : the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled  : I alone  awake. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love. 


CENONE. 


My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I am  all  aweary  of  my  life. 

“O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Hear  me  O Earth,  hear  me  O Hills,  Q Caves 
That  house  the  cold  crown’d  snake  ! O moun- 
tain brooks, 

I am  the  daughter  of  a River-God, 

Hear  me,  for  I will  speak,  and  build  up  all 
My  sorrow  with  my  song,  as  yonder  walls 
Rose  slowly  to  a music  slowly  breathed, 

A cloud  that  gather’d  shape  : for  it  may  be 
That,  while  I speak  of  it,  a little  while 
My  heart  may  wander  from  its  deeper  woe. 

“O  mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

I waited  underneath  the  dawning  hills. 

Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  was  dewy-dark. 

And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine  : 
Beautiful  Paris,  evil-hearted  Paris, 

Leading  a jet-black  goat  white-horn’d,  white- 
hooved,  * • 

Came  up  from  reedy  Simois  all  alone. 

“O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Far-off  the  torrent  ca  I’d  me  from  the  cleft; 
Far  up  the  solitary  morning  smote 
The  streaks  of  virgin  snow.  With  down- 
dropt  eyes 

I sat  alone  : white-breasted  like  a star 
Fronting  the  dawn  he  moved  ; a leopard  skin 
Droop’d  from  his  shoulder,  but  his  sunny 
hair 

Cluster’d  about  his  temples  like  a God’s  ; 
And  his  cheek  brighten’d  as  the  foam-bow 
brightens 

When  the  wind  blows  the  foam,  and  all  my 
heart 

Went  forth  to  embrace  him  coming  ere  he 
came. 

Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

He  smiled,  and  opening  out  his  milk-white 
palm 

Disclosed  a fruit  of  pure  Hesperian  gold. 
That  smelt  ambrosially,  and  while  I look’d 
And  listen’d,  the  full-flowing  river  of  speech 
Came  down  upon  my  heart. 

“ ‘ My  own  QEnone, 
Beautiful-brow’d  CEnone,  my  own  soul. 
Behold  this  fruit,  whose  gleaming  rind  en- 
grav’n 

“ For  the  most  fair,”  would  seem  to  award  it 
thine. 

As  lovelier  than  whatever  Oread  haunt 
The  knolls  of  Ida,  loveliest  in  all  grace 
Of  movement,  and  the  charm  of  married 
brows.’ 

“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

He  prest  the  blossom  of  his  lips  to  mine. 

And  added,  ‘ This  was  cast  upon  the  board, 
When  all  the  full-faced  presence  of  the  Gods 
Ranged  in  the  halls  of  Peleus  ; whereupon 
Rose  feud,  with  question  unto  whom ’t  were 
due  : 


But  light-foot  Iris  brought  it  yester-eve, 
Delivering,  that  to  me,  by  common  voice 
Elected  umpire,  Her^  comes  to-day, 

Pallas  and  Aphrodite,  claiming  each 
This  meed  of  fairest.  Thou,  within  the  cave 
Behind  yon  whispering  tuft  of  oldest  pine, 
Mayst  well  behold  them  unbeheld,  unheard 
Hear  all,  and  see  thy  Paris  judge  of  Gods.’ 

<“  Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

It  was  the  deep  midnoon  ; one  silvery  cloud 
Had  lost  his  way  between  the  piny  sides 
’Of  this  long  glen.  Then  to  the  bower  they 
came, 

Naked  they  came  to  that  smooth-swarded 
bower, 

And  at  their  feet  the  crocus  brake  like  fire, 
Violet,  amaracus,  and  asphodel. 

Lotos  and  lilies  : and  a wind  arose. 

And  overhead  the  wandering  ivy  and  vine, 
This  way  and  that,  in  many  a wild  festoon 
Ran  riot,  garlanding  the  gnarled  boughs 
With  bunch  and  berry  and  flower  thro’  and 
thro’. 

“O  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

On  the  tree-tops  a crested  peacock  lit. 

And  o’er  him  flow’d  a golden  cloud,  and 
lean’d 

Upon  him,  slowly  dropping  fragrant  dew. 
Then  first  I heard  the  voice  of  her,  to  whom 
Coming  thro’  Heaven,  like  a light  that  grows 
Larger  and  clearer,  with  one  mind  the  Gods 
Rise  up  for  reverence.  She  to  Paris  made 
Proffer  of  royal  power,  ample  rule 
Unquestion’d,  overflowing  revenue 
Wherewith  to  embellish  state,  * from  many  a 
vale 

And  river-sunder’d  champaign  clothed  with 
corn, 

Or  labor’d  mines  undrainable  of  ore. 

Honor,’  she  said,  ‘and  homage,  tax  and  toll. 
From  many  an  inland  town  and  haven  large, 
Mast-throng’d  beneath  her  shadowing  citadel 
In  glassy  bays  among  her  tallest  towers.’ 

O mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Still  she  spake  on  and  still  she  spake  oi 
power, 

‘ Which  in  all  action  is  the  end  of  all ; 

Power  fitted  to  the  season  ; wisdom-bred 
And  throned  of  wisdom  — from  ail  neighboi 
crowns 

Alliance  and  allegiance,  till  thy  hand 
Fail  from  the  sceptre-staff.  Such  boon  from 
me. 

From  rne.  Heaven’s  Queen,  Paris,  to  the^ 
king-born, 

A shepherd  all  thy  life  but  yet  king-born. 
Should  come  most  welcome,  seeing  men,  in 
power 

Only,  are  likest  gods,  who  have  attain’d 
Rest  in  a happy  place  and  quiet  seats 
Above  the  thunder,  with  undying  bliss 
In  knowledge  of  their  own  supremacy.’ 

“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

She  ceased,  and  Paris  held  the  costly  fruit 


(ENONE. 


20 

Out  at  arm’s-length,  so  much  the  thought  of 
power 

Flatter’d  his  spirit ; but  Pallas  where  she 
stood 

Somewhat  apart,  her  clear  and  bared  limbs 
O’erthwarted  with  the  brazen-headed  spear 
Upon  her  pearly  shoulder  leaning  cold, 

The  while,  above,  her  full  and  earnest  eye 
Over  her  snow-cold  breast  and  angry  cheek 
Kept  watch,  waiting  decision,  made  reply. 

“ ‘ Self  - reverence,  self  - knowledge,  self  - 
control, 

These  three  alone  lead  life  to  sovereign 
power. 

Yet  not  for  power,  (power  of  herself 
Would  come  uncall’d  for)  but  to  live  by  law, 
Acting  the  law  we  live  by  without  fear  ; 

And,  because  right  is  right,  to  follow  right 
Were  wisdom  in  the  scorn  of  consequence.’ 

“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
Again  she  said  : ‘ I woo  thee  not  with  gifts. 
Sequel  of  guerdon  could  not  alter  me 
To  fairer.  Judge  thou  me  by  what  I am. 

So  shalt  thou  find  me  fairest. 

Yet,  indeed, 

If  gazing  on  divinity  disrobed 
Thy  mortal  eyes  are  frail  to  judge  of  fair, 
Unbiass’d  by  self- profit,  oh  ! rest  thee  sure 
That  I shall  love  thee  w'ell  and  cleave  to 
thee. 

So  that  my  vigor,  wedded  to  thy  blood, 

Shall  strike  within  thy  pulses,  like  a God’s, 
To  push  thee  forward  thro’  a life  of  shocks, 
Dangers,  and  deeds,  until  endurance  grow 
Sinew’d  with  action,  and  the  full-grown  will, 
Circled  thro’  all  experiences,  pure  law, 
Commeasure  perfect  freedom.’ 

“ Here  she  ceased. 

And  Paris  ponder’d,  and  I cried,  ‘ O Paris, 
Give  it  to  Pallas  ! ’ but  he  heard  me  not, 

Or  hearing  would  not  hear  me,  woe  is  me  ! 

“ O mother  Ida,  many-fountain’d  Ida, 
Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

Idalian  Aphrodite  beautiful, 

Fresh  as  the  foam,  new-bathed  in  Paphian 
wells. 

With  rosy  slender  fingers  backward  drew 
From  her  warm  brows  and  bosom  her  deep 
hair 

Ambrosial,  golden  round  her  lucid  throat 
And  shoulder  : from  the  violets  her  light  foot 
Shone  rosy-white,  and  o’er  her  rounded  form 
Between  the  shadows  of  the  vine-bunches 
Floated  the  glowing  sunlights,  as  she  moved. 


“ Dear  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 

She  with  a subtle  smile  in  her  mild  eyes, 

The  herald  of  her  triumph,  drawing  nigh 
Half-whisper’d  in  his  ear,  ‘ I promise  thee 
The  fairest  and  most  loving  wife  in  Greece.’ 
She  spoke  and  laugh’d  : I shut  my  sight  for 
fear : 

But  when  I look’d,  Paris  had  raised  his  arm. 


And  I beheia  great  Herd’s  angry  eyes, 

As  she  withdrew  into  the  golden  cloud. 

And  I was  left  alone  within  the  bower ; 

And  from  that  time  to  this  I am  alone. 

And  1 shall  be  alone  until  I die. 

“Yet,  mother  Ida,  hearken  ere  I die. 
Fairest — why  fairest  wife?  am  I not  fair? 
My  love  hath  told  me  so  a thousand  times. 
Methinks  I must  be  fair,  for  yesterday. 
When  I passed  by,  a wild  and  wanton  pard, 
Eyed  like  the  evening  star,  with  playful  tail 
Crouch’d  fawning  in  the  weed.  Most  loving 
is  she  ? 

Ah  me,  my  mountain  shepherd,  that  my  arms 
W ere  wound  about  thee,  and  my  hot  lips  prest 
Close,  close  to  thine  in  that  quick-falling  dew 
Of  fruitful  kisses,  thick  as  Autumn  rains 
Flash  in  the  pools  of  whirling  Simois. 

“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 
They  came,  they  cut  away  my  tallest  pines, 
My  dark  tall  pines,  that  plumed  the  craggy 
*Tledge 

High  over  the  blue  gorge,  and  all  between 
The  snowy  peak  and  snow-white  cataract 
Foster’d  the  callow  eaglet  — from  beneath 
Whose  thick  mysterious  bows  in  the  dark 
morn 

The  panther’s  roar  came  muffled,  while  I sat 
Low  in  the  valley.  Never,  never  more 
Shall  lone  CEnone  see  the  morning  mist 
Sweep  thro’  them  ; never  see  them  overlaid 
With  narrow  moon -lit  slips  of  silver  cloud, 
Betw'een  the  loud*  stream  and  the  trembling 
stars. 

“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

I wish  that  somew  here  in  the  ruin’d  folds, 
Among  the  fragments  tumbled  from  the  glens, 
Or  the  dry  thickets,  I could  meet  with  her, 
The  Abominable,  that  uninvited  came 
Into  the  fair  Peleian  banquet-hall. 

And  cast  the  golden  fruit  upon  the  boat'd. 
And  bred  this  change ; that  I might  speak 
my  mind. 

And  tell  her  to  her  face  how  much  I hate 
Her  presence,  hated  both  of  Gods  and  men. 

“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 
Hath  he  not  sworn  his  love  a thousand  times, 
In  this  green  valley,  under  this  green  hill, 
Ev’n  on  this  hand,  and  sitting  on  this  stone  ? 
Seal’d  itw'ith  kisses?  water’d  it  with  tears? 

O happy  tears,  and  how  unlike  to  these  ! 

O happy  Heaven,  how  canst  thou  see  my 
face  ? 

O happy  earth,  how  canst  thou  bear  my 
w'eight  ? 

0 death,  death,  death,  thou  ever-floating 

cloud. 

There  are  enough  unhappy  on  this  earth, 
Pass  by  the  happy  souls,  that  love  to  live  : 

1 pray  thee,  pass  before  my  light  of  life. 

And  shadow  all  my  soul,  that  I may  die. 
Thou  weighest  heavy  on  the  heart  within, 
Weigh  heavy  on  my  eyelids  : let  me  die. 


THE  SISTERS.  — TO  .—  THE  PALACE  OF  ART.  21 


**  O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 

I will  not  die  alone,  for  fiery  thoughts 
Do  shape  themselves  within  me,  more  and 
more, 

Whereof  I catch  the  issue,  as  I hear 
Dead  sounds  at  night  come  from  the  inmost 
hills. 

Like  footsteps  upon  wool,  I dimly  see 
My  far-off  doubtful  purpose,  as  a mother 
Conjectures  of  the  features  of  her  child 
Ere  it  is  born  : her  child  ! — a shudder  comes 
Across  me  : never  child  be  born  of  me, 
Unblest,  to  vex  me  with  his  father’s  eyes  I 

“ O mother,  hear  me  yet  before  I die. 
Hear  me,  O earth.  I will  not  die  alone, 

Lest  their  shrill  happy  laughter  come  to  me 
Walking  the  cold  and  starless  road  of  Death 
Uncomforted,  leaving  my  ancient  love 
With  the  Greek  woman.  I will  rise  and  go 
Down  into  Troy,  and  ere  the  stars  come  forth 
Talk  with  the  wild  Cassandra,  for  she  says 
A fire  dances  before  her,  and  a sound 
Rings  ever  in  her  ears  of  armed  men. 

What  this  maybe  I know  not,  but  I know 
That,  wheresoe’er  I am  by  night  and  day. 
All  earth  and  air  seem  only  burning  fire. 


THE  SISTERS. 

We  were  two  daughters  of  one  race  : 
She  was  the  fairest  in  the  face  : 

The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
They  were  together,  and  she  fell  ; 
Therefore  revenge  became  me  well. 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 


The  wind  is  blowing  in  turret  and  tree. 
I wrapt  his  body  in  the  sheet, 

And  laid  him  at  his  mother’s  feet. 

O the  Earl  was  fait  to  see  ! 


TO  . 

WITH  THE  FOLLOWING  POEM. 

I SEND  you  here  a sort  of  allegory, 

(For  you  will  understand  it)  of  a soul, 

A sinful  soul  possess’d  of  many  gifts, 

A spacious  garden  full  of  flowering  weeds, 

A glorious  Devil,  large  in  heart  and  brain. 
That  did  love  Beauty  only,  (Beauty  seen 
In  all  varieties  of  mould  and  mind,) 

And  Knowledge  for  its  beauty  ; or  if  Good, 
Good  only  for  its  beauty,  seeing  not 
That  Beauty,  Good,  and  Knowledge  are  three 
sisters 

That  doat  upon  each  other,  friends  to  man. 
Living  together  under  the  same  roof, 

And  never  can  be  sunder’d  without  tears. 
And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall  be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.  Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta’en  from  the  common 
earth. 

Moulded  by  God,  and  temper’d  with  the 
tears 

Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART.  ’ 


She  died  : she  went  to  burning  flame  : 

She  mix’d  her  ancient  blood  with  shame. 

The  wind  is  howling  in  turret  and  tree. 
Whole  weeks  and  months,  and  early  and  late, 
To  win  his  love  I lay  in  wait : 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  1 

I made  a feast ; I bade  him  come  ; 

I won  his  love,  I brought  him  home. 

The  wind  is  roaring  in  turret  and  tree. 
And  after  supper,  on  a bed, 

Upon  my  lap  he  laid  his  head  : 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I kiss’d  his  eyelids  into  rest  : 

His  ruddy  cheek  upon  my  breast. 

The  wind  is  raging  in  turret  and  tree. 

I hated  him  with  the  hate  of  hell, 

But  I loved  his  beauty  passing  well. 

O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I rose  up  in  the  silent  night : 

I made  my  dagger  sharp  and  bright. 

The  wind  is  raving  in  turret  and  tree. 

As  half-asleep  his  breath  he  drew. 

Three  times  I stabb’d  him  thro’  and  thro’. 
O the  Earl  was  fair  to  see  ! 

I curl’d  and  comb’d  his  comely  head. 

He  look’d  so  grand  when  he  was  dead. 


I BUILT  my  soul  a lordly  pleasure-house, 
Wherein  at  ease  for  aye  to  dwell. 

I said,  “ O Soul,  make  merry  and  carouse. 
Dear  soul,  for  all  is  well.” 

A huge  crag-platform,  smooth  as  burnish’d 
brass, 

I chose.  The  ranged  ramparts  bright 
From  level  meadow-bases  of  deep  grass 
Suddenly  scaled  the  light. 

Thereon  I built  it  firm.  Of  ledge  or  shelf 
The  rock  rose  clear,  or  winding  stair. 

My  soul  would  live  alone  unto  herself 
In  her  high  palace  there. 

And  “while  the  world  runs  round  and 
round,”  I said, 

“ Reign  thou  apart,  a quiet  king. 

Still  as,  while  Saturn  whirls,  his  steadfast 
shade 

Sleeps  on  his  luminous  ring.” 

To  which  my  soul  made  answer  readily : 

“Trust  me,  in  bliss  I shall  abide 
In  this  great  mansion,  that  is  built  for  me, 

So  royal-rich  and  wide.” 

Ar  it  ir  if 

¥ ^ ^ 

S 


22  THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


Four  courts  I made,  East,  West  and  South 
and  North, 

In  each  a squared  lawn,  wherefrom 
The  golden  gorge  of  dragons  spouted  forth 
A flood  of  fountain-foam. 

And  round  the  cool  green  courts  there  ran  a 
row 

Of  cloisters,  branch’d  like  mighty  woods. 
Echoing  all  night  to  that  sonorous  flow 
Of  spouted  fountain-floods. 

And  round  the  roofs  a gilded  gallery 
That  lent  broad  verge  to  distant  lands. 

Far  as  the  wild  swan  wings,  to  where  the 
sky 

Dipt  down  to  sea  and  sands. 

From  those  four  jets  four  currents  in  one 
swell 

Across  the  mountain  stream’d  below 
In  misty  folds,  that  floating  as  they  fell 
Lit  up  a torrent-bow. 

And  high  on  every  peak  a statue  seem’d 
To  hang  on  tiptoe,  tossing  up 
A cloud  of  incense  of  all  odor  steam’d 
From  out  a golden  cup. 

So  that  she  thought,  “ And  who  shall  gaze 
upon 

My  palace  with  unblinded  eyes, 

While  this  great  bow  will  waver  in  the  sun. 
And  that  sweet  incense  rise  ? ” 

For  that  sweet  incense  rose  and  never  fail’d, 
And,  while  day  sank  or  mounted  higher, 
The  light  aerial  gallery,  golden-rail’d. 

Burnt  like  a fringe  of  fire. 

Likewise  the  deep-set  windows,  stain’d  and 
traced. 

Would  seem  slow-flaming  crimson  fires 
From  shadow’d  grots  of  arches  interlaced. 
And  tipt  with  frost-like  spires. 

* * * * * 

^ ¥ •¥ 

Full  of  long-sounding  corridors  it  was. 

That  over-vaulted  grateful  gloom, 

Thro’  which  the  livelong  day  my  soul  did 
pass, 

Well-pleased,  from  room  to  room. 

Full  of  great  rooms  and  small  the  palace 
stood. 

All  various,  each  a perfect  whole 
From  living  Nature,  fit  for  every  mood 
And  change  of  my  still  soul. 

For  some  were  hung  with  arras  green  and 
blue. 

Showing  a gaudy  summer-mom, 

Where  with  puff’d  cheek  the  belted  hunter 
blew 

His  wreathed  bugle-horn. 

* 


One  seem’d  all  dark  and  red,  — a tract  ot 
sand. 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone. 

Who  paced  forever  in  a glimmering  land. 

Lit  with  a low  large  moon. 

One  show’d  an  iron  coast  and  angrj’^  waves. 

You  seem’d  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing 
caves. 

Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a full-fed  river  winding  slow 
By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 

The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low. 
With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil, 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.  Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a foreground  black  with  stones  and 
slags. 

Beyond,  a line  of  heights,  and  higher 
All  barr’d  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful 
crags. 

And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home, — gray  twilight 
pour’d 

On  dewy  pastures,  dew'y  trees, 

Softer  than  sleep,  — all  things  in  order  stored, 
A haunt  of  ancient  Peace. 

Nor  these  alone,  but  every  landscape  fair. 

As  fit  for  every  mood  of  mind. 

Or  gay,  or  grave,  or  sweet,  or  stem,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  truth  design’d 

it  ie  * * ♦ 

¥ ¥ 4 * 

Or  the  maid-mother  by  a crucifix. 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 

Beneath  branch-w'ork  of  costly  sardon}TC 
Sat  smiling,  babe  in  arm. 

Or  in  a clear-wall’d  city  on  the  sea, 

Near  gilded  organ-pipes,  her  hair 
Wound  with  white  roses, 'slept  St.  Cecily; 
An  angel  looked  at  her. 

Or  thronging  all  one  porch  of  Paradise, 

A group  of  Houris  bow’d  to  see 
The  dying  Islamite,  with  hands  and  eyes 
That  said,  We  wait  for  thee. 

Or  mythic  Uther’s  deeply-wounded  son 
In  some  fair  space  of  sloping  greens 
Lay,  dozing  in  the  vale  of  Avalon, 

And  watch’d  by  weeping  queens. 

Or  hollowdng  one  hand  against  his  ear. 

To  list  a footfall,  ere  he  saw 
The  wood-nymph,  stay’d  the  Ausonian  king 
to  hear 

Of  wisdom  and  of  law. 


THE  PALACE  OF  ART. 


Or  over  hills  with  peaky  tops  engrail’d, 

And  many  a tract  of  palm  and  rice, 

The  throne  of  Indian  Cama  slowly  sail’d 
A summer  fann’d  with  spice. 

Or  sweet  Europa’s  mantle  blew  unclasp’d, 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne  : 
From  one  hand  droop’d  a crocus  : one  hand 
grasp’d 

The  mild  bull’s  golden  horn. 

Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 
Half-buried  in  the  Eagle’s  down, 

Sole  as  a flying  star  shot  thro’  the  sky 
Above  the  pillar’d  town. 

Nor  these  alone  : but  every  legend  fair 
Which  the  supreme  Caucasian  mind 
Carved  out  of  Nature  for  itself,  was  there, 
Not  less  than  life,  design’d. 

***** 

« 41  « « 

Then  in  the  towers  I placed  great  bells  that 
swung. 

Moved  of  themselves,  with  silver  sound  ; 
And  with  choice  paintings  of  wise  men  I 
hung 

The  royal  dais  round. 

For  there  was  Milton  like  a seraph  strong, 
Beside  him  Shakespeare  bland  and  mild  ; 
And  there  the  world-worn  Dante  grasp’d  his 
song. 

And  somewhat  grimly  smiled. 

And  there  the  Ionian  father  of  the  rest ; 

A million  wrinkles  carved  his  skin  ; 

A hundred  winters  snow’d  upon  his  breast, 
From  cheek  and  throat  and  chin. 

Above,  the  fair  hall-ceiling  stately-set 
Many  an  arch  high  up  did  lift. 

And  angels  rising  and  descending  met 
With  interchange  of  gift. 

Below  was  all  mosaic  choicely  plann’d 
With  cycles  of  the  human  tale 
Of  this  wide  world,  the  times  of  every  land 
So  wrought,  they  will  not  fail. 

The  people  here,  a beast  of  burden  slow. 
Toil’d  onward,  prick’d  with  goads  and 
stings ; 

Here  play’d,  a tiger,  rolling  to  and  fro 
The  heads  and  crowns  of  kings ; 

Here  rose  an  athlete,  strong  to  break  or  bind 
All  force  in  bonds  that  might  endure, 

And  here  once  more  like  some  sick  man  de- 
clin’d. 

And  trusted  any  cure. 

But  over  these  she  trod  : and  those  great  bells 
Began  to  chime.  She  took  her  throne  ; 
She  sat  betwixt  the  shining  Oriels, 

To  sing  her  songs  alone. 


23 

And  thro’  the  topmost  Oriels’  color’d  flame 
Two  godlike  faces  gazed  below  ; 

Plato  the  wise,  and  large-brow’d  Verulam, 
The  first  of  those  who  know. 

And  all  those  names,  that  in  their  motion  were 
Full-welling  fountain-heads  of  change. 
Betwixt  the  slender  shafts  were  blazon’d  fair 
In  diverse  raiment  strange  ; 

Thro’  which  the  lights,  rose,  amber,  emerald, 
blue. 

Flush’d  in  her  temples  and  her  eyes. 

And  from  her  lips,  as  morn  from  Memnon, 
drew 

Rivers  of  melodies. 

No  nightingale  delighteth  to  prolong 
Her  low  preamble  all  alone. 

More  than  my  soul  to  hear  her  echo’d  song 
Throb  thro’  the  ribbed  stone  ; 

Singing  and  murmuring  in  her  feastful  mirth. 
Joying  to  feel  herself  alive. 

Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  earth. 
Lord  of  the  senses  five  ; 

Communing  with  herself : “ All  these  are 
mine. 

And  let  the  world  have  peace  or  wars, 

’T  is  one  to  me.”  She  — when  young  night 
divine 

Crown’d  dying  day  with  stars, 

Making  sweet  close  of  his  delicious  toils  — 
Lit  light  in  wreaths  and  anadems. 

And  pure  quintessences  of  precious  oils 
In  hollow’d  mooris  of  gems. 

To  mimic  heaven  ; and  clapt  her  hands  and 
cried, 

“ I marvel  if  my  still  delight 
In  this  great  house  so  royal-rich,  and  wide. 
Be  flatter’d  to  the  height. 

“ O all  things  fair  to  sate  my  various  eyes  ! 

0 shapes  and  hues  that  please  me  well ! 

O silent  faces  of  the  Great  and  Wise, 

My  Gods,  with  whom  I dwell ! 

“O  God-like  isolation  which  art  mine, 

1 can  but  count  thee  perfect  gain, 

What  time  I watch  the  darkening  droves  of 
swine 

That  range  on  yonder  plain. 

“ In  filthy  sloughs  they  roll  a prurient  skin. 
They  graze  and  wallow, breed  and  sleep; 
And  oft  some  brainless  devil  enters  in. 

And  drives  them  to  the  deep.” 

, Then  of  the  moral  instinct  would  she  prate. 
And  of  the  rising  from  the  dead, 

As  hers  by  right  of  full-accomplish’d  Fate  ; 
And  at  the  last  she  said : 

“ I take  possession  of  man’s  mind  and  deed. 

. I qare  not  what  the  sects  may  brawl. 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERB. 


24 

I sit  as  God  holding  no  form  of  creed, 

But  contemplating  all.” 

# # * # * 

* * * # * 

Full  oft  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth 
Flash’d  thro’  her  as  she  sat  alone, 

Yet  not  the  less  held  she  her  solemn  mirth, 
And  intellectual  throne. 

And  so  she  throve  and  prosper’d : so  three 
years 

She  prosper’d  : on  the  fourth  she  fell, 

Like  Herod,  when  the  shout  was  in  his  ears. 
Struck  thro’  with  pangs  of  hell. 

Lest  she  should  fail  and  perish  utterly, 

God,  before  whom  ever  lie  bare 
The  abysmal  deeps  of  Personality, 

Plagued  her  with  sore  despair. 

When  she  would  think,  where’er  she  turn’d 
her  sight. 

The  airy  hand  confusion  wrought, 

Wrote  “ Mene,  mene,”  and  divided  quite 
The  kingdom  of  her  thought. 

Deep  dread  and  loathing  of  her  solitude 
Fell  on  her,  from  which  mood  was  born 
Scorn  of  herself ; again,  from  out  that  mood 
Laughter  at  her  self-scorn. 

“What!  is  not  this  my  place  of  strength,” 
she  said, 

“ My  spacious  mansion  built  for  me. 
Whereof  the  strong  foundation-stones  were 
laid 

Since  my  first  memory  ? ” 

But  in  dark  corners  of  her  palace  stood 
Uncertain  shapes  ; and  unawares 
On  white-eyed  phantasms  weeping  tears  of 
blood, 

And  horrible  nightmares. 

And  hollow  shades  enclosing  hearts  of  flame, 
And,  with  dim  fretted  foreheads  all. 

On  corpses  three-months  old  at  noon  she 
came. 

That  stood  against  the  wall. 

A spot  of  dull  stagnation,  without  light 
Or  power  of  movement,  seem’d  my  soul, 
’Mid  onward-sloping  motions  infinite 
Making  for  one  sure  goal. 

A still  salt  pool,  lock’d  in  with  bars  of  sand ; 

Left  on  the  shore  : that  hears  all  night 
The  plunging  seas  draw  backward  from  the 
land  . 

Their  moon-led  waters  white. 

A star  that  with  the  choral  starry  dance 
Join’d  not,  but  stood,  and  standing  saw 
The  hollow  orb  of  moving  Circumstance 
Roll’d  round  by  one  fix’d  law. 


Back  on  herself  her  serpent  pride  had  curl’d. 

“ No  voice,”  she  shriek’d  in  that  lone  hall, 
“ No  voice  breaks  thro’  the  stillness  of  this 
world : 

One  deep,  deep  silence  all  1 ” 

She,  mouldering  with  the  dull  earth’s  mould- 
ering sod, 

Inwrapt  tenfold  in  slothful  shame, 

Lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  God, 

Lost  to  her  place  and  name ; 

And  death  and  life  she  hated  equally, 

And  nothing  saw,  for  her  despair, 

But  dreadful  time,  dreadful  eternity. 

No  comfort  anywhere ; 

Remaining  utterly  confused  with  fears. 

And  ever  worse  with  growing  time. 

And  ever  unrelieved  by  dismal  tears. 

And  all  alone  in  crime  : 

Shut  up  as  in  a crumbling  tomb,  girt  round 
With  blackness  as  a solid  wall. 

Far  off  she  seem’d  to  hear  the  dully  sound 
Of  human  footsteps  fall. 

As  in  strange  lands  a traveller  walking  slow. 
In  doubt  and  great  perplexity, 

A little  before  moon-rise  hears  the  low 
Moan  of  an  unknown  sea  ; 

And  knows  not  if  i'.  be  thunder  or  a sound 
Of  rocks  thrown  down,  or  one  deep  cry 
Of  great  wild  beasts ; then  thinketh,  “ I have 
found 

A new  land,  but  I die.” 

She  howl’d  aloud,  “ I am  on  fire  within. 

There  comes  no  murmur  of  reply. 

What  is  it  that  will  take  away  my  sin. 

And  save  me  lest  I die?” 

So  when  four  years  were  wholly  finished. 
She  threw  her  royal  robes  away, 

“ Make  me  a cottage  in  the  vale,”  she  said, 
“ Where  I may  mourn  and  pray. 

“ Yet  pull  not  down  my  palace  towers,  that  are 
So  lightly,  beautifully  built : 

Perchance  I may  return  with  others  there 
When  I have  purged  my  guilt.” 


LADY  CLARA  VERB  DE  VERB. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renpwn  : 

You  thought  to  break  a country  heart 
For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 

At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 
I saw  the  snare,  and  I retired  : 

The  daughter  of  a hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

1 know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name. 


The  daughter  of  a hundred  Earls, 
You  are  not  one  to  be  desired.” 


THE  MA  y QUEEN. 


25 


Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I came. 
Nor  would  I break  for  your  sweet  sake 
A heart  that  doats  on  truer  charms. 

A simple  maiden  in  her  flower 
Is  worth  a hundred  coats-of-arms. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 

For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I could  not  stoop  to  such  a mind. 

You  sought  to  prove  how  I could  lov«^ 
And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 

The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 
Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  pul  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have 
blown 

Since  I beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low'  replies  : 

A great  enchantress  you  may  be  ; 

But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 
Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother’s  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind. 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed  I heard  one  bitter  woid 
That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 

Her  rnanners  had  not  that  repose 
Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de 
Vere. 


Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a spectre  in  your  hall : 

The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a wholesome  heart  to  gall. 

You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth. 

And,  last,  you  fix’d  a vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent  . 

The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 
Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 

Howe’er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

’T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere  ; 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers  : 

The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 
Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 

In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 
But  sickening  of  a vague  disease, 

You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time. 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  asthes®- 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands. 

Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate. 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands? 

Oh  ! teach  the  orphan-boy  to  read. 

Or  teach  the  orphan-girl  to  sew. 

Pray  Heaven  for  a human  heart. 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear; 
To-morrow  ’ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year; 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  maddest  merriest  day; 

For  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

There ’s  many  a black  black  eye,  they  say,  but  none  so  bright  as  mine  ; 

V There ’s  Margaret  and  Mary,  there ’s  Kate  and  Caroline  : 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say. 

So  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

I sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I shall  never  w'ake. 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break : 

But  I must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands  gay. 

For  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

As  I came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I see. 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I gave  him  yesterday,  — 

But  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

He  thought  I was  a ghost,  mother,  for  I was  all  in  white, 

And  I ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a flash  of  light. 

They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I care  not  what  they  say. 

For  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

They  say  he ’s  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be  : 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother  — what  is  that  to  me  ? 


26 


NEIV-VEAR^S  EVE. 

There ’s  many  a bolder  lad  Mil  woo  me  any  summer  day, 

And  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 

And  you  ’ll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  ’ill  come  from  far  away. 

And  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  1 ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov’n  its  wavy  bowers. 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 

And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and  hollows  gray. 
And  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother^I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they  pass; 

There  will  not  be  a drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong  day. 

And  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  ’ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still. 

And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 

And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  ’ill  merrily  glance  and  play, 

For  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 
To-morrow  ’ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year : 

To-morrow  ’ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day. 

For  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 


NEW-YEAR’S  EVE. 

If  you’re  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 

For  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I shall  ever  see. 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i’  the  mould  and  think  no  more  of  me. 

To-night  I saw  the  sun  set : he  set  and  left  behind 
The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of  mind  ; 
And  the  New-year ’s  coming  up,  mother,  but  1 shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a crown  of  flowers  : we  had  a merry  day  ; 
Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of  May ; 
And  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse. 

Till  Charles’s  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney-tops. 

There ’s  not  a flow'er  on  all  the  hills  ; the  frost  is  on  the  pane  : 

I only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again  : 

I wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high  : 

I long  to  see  a flower  so  before  the  day  I die. 

The  building  rook  ’ill  caw  from  the  wandy  tall  elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea. 

And  the  swallow  ’ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o’er  the  w'ave. 
But  I shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine. 

In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  ’ill  shine, 

Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill. 

When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning  light 
You  ’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night ; 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the  pool. 

You’ll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you  ’ll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I am  lowly  laid. 


CONCLUSION'. 


27 

I shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I shall  hear  you  when  you  pass, 

With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I have  been  wild  and  w'ayward,  but  you  ’ll  forgive  me  now  ; 

You  ’ll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I go  ; 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild, 

You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I can  I ’ll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place ; 

Tho’  you  ’ll  not  see  me,  mother,  I shall  look  upon  your  face ; 

Tho’  I cannot  speak  a word,  1 shall  hearken  what  you  say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I ’m  far  away. 

Good-night,  good-night,  when  I have  said  good-night  forevermore, 

And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  thresholdof  the  door ; 

Don’t  let  Efifie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green  ; 

She’ll  be  a better  child  to  you  than  ever  1 have  been. 

She  ’ll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor  ; 

Let  her  take  ’em  : they  are  hers  : I shall  never  garden  more  : 

But  tell  her,  when  I ’m  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  i set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother  ; call  me  before  the  day  is  born. 

All  night  1 lie  awake,  but  I fall  asleep  at  morn  ; 

But  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 

So,  if  you  ’re  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION. 

I THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I am  ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadl3^  I remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year  ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet ’s  here. 

O sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies. 

And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb’s  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise. 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow. 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem’d  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun. 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done  ! 

But  still  I think  it  can’t  be  long  before  I find  release  ; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of  peace. 

O blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there  ! 

0 blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 

A thousand  times  I blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show’d  me  all  the  sin. 

Now',  tho’  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there ’s  One  will  let  me  in; 
Nor  would  1 now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be. 

For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

1 did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat. 
There  came  a sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet ; 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine. 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  1 will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March- morning  I heard  the  angels  call  ; 

It  was  w hen  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all  ; 
The  tpees  began  to  w'hisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll. 

And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I thought  of  you  and  Efifie  dear  ; 

1 saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I no  longer  here ; 


28  THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

With  all  my  strength  I pray’d  for  both,  and  so  1 felt  resign’d, 

And  up  the  valley  came  a swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I listen’d  in  my  bed, 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I know  not  what  was  said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 

And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I said,  “ It’s  not  for  them  : it ’s  mine.’* 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I thought,  I take  it  for  a sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars. 

Then  seem’d  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the  stars. 

So  now  I think  rny  time  is  near.  I trust  it  is.  I know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 

And  for  myself,  indeed,  I care  not  if  I go  to-day. 

But,  Efifie,  you  must  comfort  Aerwhen  I am  past  away. 

And  say  to  Robin  a kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret ; 

There ’s  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  5^et. 

If  1 had  lived  — I cannot  tell  — I might  have  been  his  wife  ; 

But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O look  ! the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I know. 

And  there  I move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may  shine  — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun  — 

For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true  — 

And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan?  why  make  we  such  ado? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a blessed  home  — 

And  there  to  w'ait  a little  while  till  you  and  Efiie  come  — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I lie  upon  your  breast  — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 

“ Courage  ! ” he  said,  and  pointed  toward 
the  land, 

“ This  mounting  wave  will  roll  us  shore- 
ward soon.” 

In  the  afternoon  they  came  unto  a land, 

In  which  it  seemed  always  afternoon. 

All  round  the  coast  the  languid  air  did  swoon, 

Breathing  like  one  that  hath  a weary  dream. 

Full-faced  above  the  valley  stood  the  moon ; 

And  like  a downward  smoke,  the  slender 
stream 

Along  the  cliff  to  fall  and  pause  and  fall  did 
seem. 

A land  of  streams  ! some,  like  a downward 
smoke. 

Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn,  did  go.; 

And  some  thro’  wavering  lights  and  shadows 
broke. 

Rolling  a slumbrous  sheet  of  foam  below. 

They  saw  the  gleaming  river  seaward  flow 

From  the  inner  land  : far  off,  three  mountain- 
tops. 

Three  silent  pinnacles  of  aged  snow. 

Stood  sunset-flush’d  ; and,  dew’d  with  show- 
ery drops, 

Up-clomb  the  shadowy  pine  above  the  woven 
copse. 


The  charmed  sunset  linger’d  low  adown 
In  the  red  West;  thro’  mountain  clefts  the 
dale 

Was  seen  far  inland,  and  the  yellow  down 
Border’d  with  palm,  and  many  a winding 
vale 

And  meadow,  set  with  slender  galingale  : 

A land  where  all  things  always  seem’d  the 
same ! 

And  round  about  the  keel  with  faces  pale. 
Dark  faces  pale  against  that  rosy  flame. 

The  mild-eyed  melancholy  Lotos-eaters 
came. 

Branches  they  bore  of  that  enchanted  stem. 
Laden  with  flower  and  fruit,  whereof  they 
gave 

To  each,  but  whoso  did  receive  of  them. 
And  taste,  to  him  the  gushing  of  the  wave 
Far  far  away  did  seem  to  mourn  and  rave 
On  alien  shores  ; and  if  his  fellow  spake. 

His  voice  was  thin,  as  voices  from  the  grave  ; 
And  deeja-asleep  he  seem’d,  yet  all  awake. 
And  music  in  his  ears  his  beating  heart  did 
make. 

They  sat  them  down  upon  the  yellow  sand, 
Betw'een  the  sun  and  moon  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave  ; but  evermore 


THE  LOTOS-EATERS. 


29 


Most  weary  seem’d  the  sea,  weary  the  oar, 

Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam. 

Then  sorne  one  said,  “We  will  return  no 
more  ” ; 

And  all  at  once  they  sang,  “ Our  island 
home 

Is  far  beyond  the  wave;  we  will  no  longer 
roam.” 

CHORIC  SONG. 


There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 
Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass. 
Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 
Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a gleamin.^  pass  ; 
Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 

Than  tir’d  eyelids  upon  tir’d  eyes  : 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the 
blissful  skies. 

Here  are  cool  mosses  deep. 

And  thro’  the  moss  the  ivies  creep. 

And  in  the  stream  the  long-leaved  flowers 
weep, 

And  from  the  craggy  ledge  the  poppy  hangs 
in  sleep. 

2. 

Why  are  we  weigh’d  upon  with  heaviness. 
And  utterly  consumed  with  sharp  distress. 
While  all  things  else  have  rest  from  weari- 
ness ? 

All  things  have  rest : why  should  we  toil 
alone. 

We  only  toil,  who  are  the  first  of  things, 

And  make  perpetual  moan. 

Still  from  one  sorrow  to  another  thrown  : 

Nor  ever  fold  our  wings. 

And  cease  from  wanderings, 

Nor  steep  our  brows  in  slumber’s  holy  balm : 
Nor  hearken  what  the  inner  spirit  sings, 

“ There  is  no  joy  but  calm  ! ” 

Why  should  we  only  toil,  the  roof  and  crown 
of  things  ? 

3. 

Lo  ! in  the  middle  of  the  wood. 

The  folded  leaf  is  woo’d  from  out  the  bud 
With  w'inds  upon  the  branch,  and  there 
Grows  green  and  broad,  and  takes  no  care, 
Sun-steep’d  at  noon,  and  in  the  moon 
Nightly  dew-fed  ; and  turning  yellow 
Falls,  and  floats  adown  the  air. 

Lo  ! sweeten’d  with  the  summer  light. 

The  full-juiced  apple,  waxing  over-mellow, 
Drops  in  a silent  autumn  night. 

All  its  allotted  length  of  days. 

The  flower  ripens  in  its  place. 

Ripens  and  fades,  and  falls,  and  hath  no  toil. 
Fast-rooted  in  the  fruitful  soil. 

4- 

Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 

Vaulted  o’er  the  dark-blue  sea. 

Death  is  the  end  of  life  ; ah,  why 
Should  life  all  labor  be  ? 


Let  us  alone.  Time  driveth  onward  fast. 
And  in  a little  while  our  lips  are  dumb. 

Let  us  alone.  What  is  it  that  will  last  ? 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  and  become 
Portions  and  parcels  of  the  dreadful  Past. 
Let  us  alone.  What  pleasure  can  we  have 
To  war  with  evil  ? Is  there  any  peace 
I n ever  climbing  up  the  climbing  wave  ? 

All  things  have  rest,  and  ripen  toward  the 
grave 

In  silence  ; ripen,  fall  and  cease  : 

Give  us  long  rest  or  death,  dark  death,  or 
dreamful  ease. 

5. 

How  sweet  It  were,  hearing  the  downw^ard 
stream. 

With  half-shut  eyes  ever  to  seem 
Falling  asleep  in  a half-dream  ! 

To  dream  and  dream,  like  yonder  amber 
light, 

Which  will  not  leave  the  myrrh-bush  on  the 
height ; 

To  hear  each  other’s  whisper’d  speech  ; 
Eating  the  Lotos  day  by  day. 

To  watch  the  crisping  ripples  on  the  beach, 
And  tender  curving  lines  of  creamy  spray  ; 
To  lend  our  hearts  and  spirits  wholly 
To  the  influence  of  mild-minded  melancholy; 
To  muse  and  brood  and  live  again  in  memory, 
With  those  old  faces  of  our  infancy 
Heap’d  over  with  a mound  of  grass. 

Two  handfuls  of  white  dust,  shut  in  an  um 
of  brass  ! 

6. 

Dear  is  the  memory  of  our  wedded  lives, 

And  dear  the  last  embraces  of  our  wives 
And  their  warm  tears  : but  all  hath  suffer’d 
change  ; 

For  surely  now  our  household  hearths  are 
cold  : 

Our  sons  inherit  us  : our  looks  are  strange  : 
And  we  should  come  like  ghosts  to  trouble 
joy. 

Or  else  the  island  princes  over-bold 
Have  eat  our  substance,  and  the  minstrel 
sings 

Before  them  of  the  ten-years’  war  in  Troy, 
And  our  great  deeds,  as  haif-forgotten  things. 
Is  there  confusion  in  the  little  isle? 

Let  what  is  broken  so  remain. 

The  Gods  are  hard  to  reconcile  : 

’T  is  hard  to  settle  order  once  again. 

There  is  confusion  worse  than  death, 

Trouble  on  trouble,  pain  on  pain. 

Long  labor  unto  aged  breath. 

Sore  task  to  hearts  w'orn  out  with  many  wars 
And  eyes  grown  dim  with  gazing  on  the  pilot- 
stars. 

7- 

But,  propt  on  beds  of  amaranth  and  moly. 
How  sweet  (while  warm  airs  lull  us,  blowing 
lowly) 

With  half-dropt  eyelids  still, 

Beneath  a heaven  dark  and  holy. 


30 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEFT. 


To  watch  the  long  bright  river  drawing  slowly 

His  waters  from  the  purple  hill  — 

To  hear  the  dewy  echoes  calling 

From  cave  to  cave  thro’  the  thick-twined 
vine  — 

To  watch  the  emerald-color’d  water  falling 

Thro’  many  a wov’n  acanthus-wreath  divine  ! 

Only  to  hear  and  see  the  far-off  sparkling 
brine, 

Only  to  hear  were  sweet,  stretch’d  out  be- 
neath the  pine. 

8. 

The  Lotos  blooms  below  the  barren  peak  : 

The  Lotos  blows  by  every  winding  creek  : 

All  day  the  wind  breathes  low  with  mellower 
tone  : 

Thro’  every  hollow  cave  and  alley  lone 

Round  and  round  the  spicy  downs  the  yellow 
Lotos-dust  is  blown. 

We  have  had  enough  of  action,  and  of  motion 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

I READ,  before  my  eyelids  dropt  their  shade, 
“ The  Legend  of  Good  IVoTAen,^*  long 
ago 

Sung  by  the  morning  star  of  song,  who  made 
His  music  heard,  below  ; 

Dan  Chaucer,  the  first  warbler,  whose  sweet 
breath 

Preluded  those  melodious  bursts  that  fill 

The  spacious  times  of  great  Elizabeth 
With  sounds  that  echo  still. 

And,  for  a while,  the  knowledge  of  his  art 
Held  me  above  the  subject,  as  strong 
gales 

Hold  swollen  clouds  from  raining,  tho’  my 
heart. 

Brimful  of  those  wild  tales, 


we. 

Roll’d  to  starboard,  roll’d  to  larboard,  when 
the  surge  was  seething  free. 

Where  the  wallowing  monster  spouted  his 
foam-fountains  in  the  sea. 

Let  us  swear  an  oath,  and  keep  it  with  an 
equal  mind. 

In  the  hollow  Lotos-land  to  live  and  lie  re- 
clined 

On  the  hills  like  Gods  together,  careless  of 
mankind. 

For  they  lie  beside  their  nectar,  and  the  bolts 
are  hurl’d 

Far  below  them  in  the  valleys,  and  the  clouds 
are  lightly  curl’d 

Round  their  golden  houses,  girdled  with  the 
gleaming  world : 

Where  they  smile  in  secret,  looking  over 
wasted  lands. 

Blight  and  famine,  plague  and  earthquake, 
roaring  deeps  and  fiery  sands. 

Clanging  fights,  and  flaming  towns,  and 
sinking  ships,  and  praying  hands. 

But  they  smile,  they  find  a music  centred  in 
a doleful  song 

Steaming  up,  a lamentation  and  an  ancient 
tale  of  wrong. 

Like  a tale  of  little  meaning  tho’  the  words 
are  strong ; 

Chanted  from  an  ilbused  race  of  men  that 
cleave  the  soil. 

Sow  the  seed,  and  reap  the  harvest  with 
enduring  toil, 

Storing  yearly  little  dues  of  wheat,  and  wine 
and  oil ; 

Till  they  perish  and  they  suffer  — some,  ’t  is 
whispered  — down  in  hell 

Suffer  endless  anguish,  others  in  Elysian 
valleys  dwell. 

Resting  weary  limbs  at  last  on  beds  of  as- 
phodel. 

Surely,  surely,  slumber  is  more  sweet  than 
toil,  the  shore 

Than  labor  in  the  deep  mid-ocean,  wind  and 
wave  and  oar ; 

O rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wan- 
der more. 


Charged  both  mine  eyes  with  tears.  In  every 
land 

I saw,  wherever  light  illumineth, 

Beauty  and  anguish  walking  hand  in  hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 


Those  far-renowned  brides  of  ancient  song 
Peopled  the  hollow  dark,  like  burning 
stars. 

And  I heard  sounds  of  insult,  shame,  and 
wrong. 

And  trumpets  blown  for  wars  ; 


And  clattering  flints  batter’d  with  clanging 
hoofs : 

And  I saw  crowds  in  column’d  sanctua- 
ries ; 

And  forms  that  pass’d  at  windows  and  on  roofs 
Of  marble  palaces ; 

Corpses  across  the  threshold  ; heroes  tall 
Dislodging  pinnacle  and  parapet 
Upon  the  tortoise  creeping  to  the  wall ; 
Lances  in  ambush  set ; 


And  high  shrine-doors  burst  thro’  with  heated 
blasts 

That  run  before  the  fluttering  tongues  of 


fire  ; 

White  surf  wind-scatter’d  over  sails  and 


masts. 

And  ever  climbing  higher ; 


Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen 
plates. 

Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers 
woes. 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates, 
And  hush’d  seraglios. 


So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as,  when  to 
land 

Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self-same 
way. 

Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand. 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray. 


O rest  ye,  brother  mariners,  we  will  not  wander  more.” 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


I started  once,  or  seem’d  to  start  in  pain, 
Resolved  on  noble  things,  and  strove  to 
speak. 

As  when  a great  thought  strikes  along  the 
brain, 

And  flushes  all  the  cheek. 

And  once  my  arm  was  lifted  to  hew  down 
A cavalier  from  off  his  saddle-bow. 

That  bore  a lady  from  a leaguer’d  town  ; 

And  then,  I know  not  how, 

All  those  sharp  fancies  by  down-lapsing 
thought 

Stream’d  onward,  lost  their  edges,  and 
did  creep 

Roll’d  on  each  other,  rounded,  smooth’d, 
and  brought 
Into  the  gulfs  of  sleep. 

At  last  methought  that  I had  wandered  far 
In  an  old  wood  ; fresh-wash’d  in  coolest 
dew, 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 
Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

Enormous  elm-tree  boles  did  stoop  and  lean 
Upon  the  dusky  brushwood  underneath 
Their  broad  curved  branches,  fledged  with 
clearest  green, 

New  from  its  silken  sheath. 

The  dim  red  morn  had  died,  her  journey 
done, 

And  with  dead  lips  smiled  at  the  twilight 
plain, 

Half-fall’n  across  the  threshold  of  the  sun, 
Never  to  rise  again. 

There  was  no  motion  in  the  dumb  dead  air. 
Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 
Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 
Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest.  Growths  of  jasmine 
turn’d 

Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree. 
And  at  the  root  thro’  lush  green  grassesburn’d 
The  red  anemone. 

I knew  the  flowers,  I knew  the  leaves,  I knew 
The  tearful  glimmer  of  the  languid  dawn 
On  those  long,  rank,  dark  wood-walks 
drench’d  in  dew, 

Leading  from  lawn  to  lawn. 

The  smell  of  violets,  hidden  in  the  green, 
Pour’d  back  into  my  empty  soul  and 
frame 

The  times  when  I remember  to  have  been 
Joyful  and  free  from  blame. 

And  from  within  me  a clear  under-tone 

Thrill’d  thro’  mine  ears  in  that  unblissful 
clime, 

“ Pass  freely  thro’ : the  wood  is  all  thine  own. 
Until  the  end  of  time.” 


At  length  I saw  a lady  within  call. 

Stiller  than  chisell’d  marble,  standing 
there  ; 

A daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 
F 1 oze  my  swift  speech  ; she  turning  on 
my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 
Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

“ I had  great  beauty  ; ask  thou  not  my  name  : 
No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.  Where’er  I 
came 

I brought  calamity.” 

“No  marvel,  sovereign  lady  : in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a face  had  boldly  died.” 

I answer’d  free  ; and  turning  I appeal’d 
To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 
To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature 
draws  ; 

” My  youth,”  she  said,  “was  blasted  with  a 
curse  : 

This  woman  was  the  cause. 

“ I was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 
Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and 
fears  : 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face  : 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

“ Still  strove  to  speak  : my  voice  was  thick 
with  sighs 

As  in  a dream.  Dimly  I could  descry 

The  stern  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfish 
eyes. 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

“ The  high  masts  flicker’d  as  they  lay  afloat ; 
The  crowds,  the  temples,  waver’d,  and 
the  shore  ; 

The  bright  death  quiver’d  at  the  victim’s 
throat ; 

Touch’d  ; and  I knew  no  more.” 

Whereto  the  other  with  a downward  brow : 

“ I would  the  white  cold  heavy-plunging 
foam. 

Whirl’d  by  the  wind,  had  roll’d  me  deep  below, 
Then  when  I left  my  home.” 

Her  slow  full  words  sank  thro’  the  silence 
drear. 

As  thunder-drops  fall  on  a sleeping  sea  ; 

Sudden  I heard  a voice  that  cried,  “ Come 
here, 

That  I may  look  on  thee.” 

I turning  saw,  throned  on  a flowery  rise, 

One  sitting  on  a crimson  scarf  unroll’d  ; 

A queen,  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold  black 
eyes. 

Brow-bound  with  burning  gold. 


A DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 


32 

She,  flashing  forth  a haughty  smile,  began  : 
“ I govern’d  men  by  change,  and  so  I 
sway’d 

All  moods.  ’T  is  long  since  I have  seen  a 
man. 

Once,  like  the  moon,  I made 

“ The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 

I have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood  : 

That  makes  my  only  woe. 

“Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I could  not 
bend 

One  will ; nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine 
eye 

That  dull  cold-blooded  Caesar.  Prythee, 
friend, 

Where  is  Mark  Antony? 

“ The  man,  my  lover,  with  whom  I rode 
sublime 

On  Fortune’s  neck : we  sat  as  God  by 
God : 

The  Nilus  would  have  risen  before  his  time 
And  flooded  at  our  nod. 

“ We  drank  the  Libyan  Sun  to  sleep,  and  lit 
Lamps  which  outburn’d  Canopus.  O 
my  life 

In  Egypt  ! O the  dalliance  and  the  wit, 

The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

“ And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war’s 
alarms. 

My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 

My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt-into  my  arms, 
Contented  there  to  die  I 

“ And  there  he  died  : and  when  I heard  my 
name 

Sigh’d  forth  with  life  I would  not  brook 
my  fear 

Of  the  other : with  a worm  I balk’d  his 
fame. 

What  else  was  left  ? look  here  ! ” 

(With  that  she  tore  her  robe  apart,  and  half 
The  polish’d  argent  of  her  breast  to  sight 

Laid  bare.  Thereto  she  pointed  with  a 
laugh. 

Showing  the  aspic’s  bite.) 

“ I died  a Queen.  The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my 
brows, 

A name  forever  ! — lying  robed  and  crown’d. 
Worthy  a Roman  spouse.” 

Her  warbling  voice,  a lyre  of  widest  range 
Struck  by  all  passion,  did  fall  down  and 
glance 

From  tone  to  tone,  and  glided  thro’  all 
change 

Of  liveliest  utterance. 

When  she  made  pause  I knew  not  for  de- 
light ; 

Because  with  sudden  motion  from  the 
ground 


She  raised  her  piercing  orbs,  and  fill’d  with 
light 

The  interval  of  sound. 

Still  with  their  fires  Love  tipt  his  keenest 
darts  ; 

As  once  they  drew  into  two  burning 
rings 

All  beams  of  Love,  melting  the  mighty  hearts 
Of  captains  and  of  kings. 

Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.  Then  I heard 
A noise  of  some  one  coming  thro’  the 
law’n. 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird. 
That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

“ The  torrent  brooks  of  hallow’d  Israel 

From  craggy  hollows  pouring,  late  and 
soon, 

Sound  all  night  long,  in  falling  thro’  the 
dell. 

Far-heard  beneath  the  moon. 

“The  balmy  moon  of  blessed  Israel 

Floods  all  the  deep-blue  gloom  with 
beams  divine  : 

All  night  the  splinter’d  crags  that  wall  the 
dell 

With  spires  of  silver  shine.” 

As  one  that  museth  where  broad  sunshine 
laves 

The  lawn  of  some  cathedral,  thro’  the 
door 

Hearing  the  holy  organ  rolling  waves 
Of  sound  on  roof  and  floor 

Within,  and  anthem  sung,  is  charm’d  and  tied 
To  where  he  stands,  — so  stood  I,  when 
that  flow 

Of  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 
To  save  her  father’s  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  w'arrior  Gileadite, 

A maiden  pure  ; as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpeh’s  tower’d  gate  with  welcome 
light. 

With  timbrel  and  with  song. 

My  words  leapt  forth  : “ Heaven  heads  the 
count  of  crimes 

With  that  wild  oath.”  She  render’d 
answer  high : 

“ Not  so,  nor  once  alone  ; a thousand  times 
I would  be  born  and  die. 

“ Single  I grew,  like  some  green  plant,  whose 
root 

Creeps  to  the  garden  water-pipes  be- 
neath. 

Feeding  the  flower ; but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Changed,  I was  ripe  for  death. 

“My  God,  my  land,  my  father,  — these  did 
move 

Me  from  my  bliss  of  life,  that  Nature 
gave. 


MARGARET. 


33 


Lower’d  softly  with  a threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a silent  grave. 

“ And  I went  mourning,  ‘ No  fair  Hebrew 
boy 

Shall  smile  aw'ay  my  maiden  blame 
among 

The  Hebrew  mothers’  — emptied  of  all  joy, 
Leaving  the  dance  and  song, 

“ Leaving  the  olive-gardens  far  below. 

Leaving  the  promise  of  my  bridal  bower. 
The  valleys  of  grape-loaded  vines  that  glow 
Beneath  the  battled  tower. 

“ The  light  white  cloud  swam  over  usw  Anon 
We  heard  the  lion  roaring  from  his  den ; 
We  saw  the  large  white  stars  rise  one  by  one, 
Or,  from  the  darken’d  glen, 

“ Saw  God  divide  the  night  with  flying 
flame, 

And  thunder  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

I heard  Him,  for  He  spake,  and  grief  became 
A solemn  scorn  of  ills. 

“When  the  next  moon  was  roll’d  into  the 
sky. 

Strength  came  to  me  that  equall’d  my 
desire. 

How  beautiful  a thing  it  was  to  die 
F or  God  and  for  my  sire  ! 

“ It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell. 
That  I subdued  me  to  my  father’s  vvdll  ; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  1 fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still. 

“ Moreover  it  is  written  that  my  race 

Hew’d  Ammon,  hip  and  thigh,  from 
Aroer 

On  Arnon  unto  Minneth.”  Here  her  face 
Glow’d,  as  I look’d  at  her. 

She  lock’d  her  lips ; she  left  me  where  I 
stood : 

“ Glory  to  God,”  she  sang,  and  past 
afar, 

Thridding  the  sombre  boskage  of  the  wood. 
Toward  the  morning-star. 

Losing  her  carol  I stood  pensively. 

As  one  that  from  a casement  leans  his 
head. 

When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly. 
And  the  old  year  is. dead. 

“Alas  ! alas  ! ” a low  voice,  full  of  care, 
Murmur’d  beside  me:  “Turn  and  look 
on  me  : 

I am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair. 

If  what  I was  I be. 

“ Would  I had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and 
poor  ! 

O me,  that  I should  ever  see  the  light ! 


Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger’d  Eleanor 
Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night.” 

She  ceased  in  tears,  fallen  from  hope  and 
trust : 

To  whom  the  Egyptian  : “ O,  you  tamely 
died  ! 

You  should  have  clung  to  Fulvia’s  waist,  and 
thrust 

The  dagger  thro’  her  side.” 

With  that  sharp  sound  the  white  dawn’s 
creeping  beams, 

Stol’n  to  my  brain,  dissolved  the  mystery 

Of  folded  sleep.  The  captain  of  my  dreams 
Ruled  in  the  eastern  sky. 

Morn  broaden’d  on  the  borders  of  the  dark. 
Ere  1 saw  her,  who  clasp’d  in  her  last 
trance 

Her  murder’d  father’s  head,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 
A light  of  ancient  France  ; 

Or  her,  who  knew  that  Love  can  vanquish 
Death, 

Who  kneeling,  with  one  arm  about  her 
king. 

Drew  forth  the  poison  with  her  balmy  breath. 
Sweet  as  new  buds  in  Spring. 

No  memory  labors  longer  from  the  deep 

Gold-mines  of  thought  to  lift  the  hidden 
ore 

That  glimpses,  moving  up,  than  I from  sleep 
To  gather  and  tell  o’er 

Each  little  sound  and  sight.  With  what  dull 
pain 

Compass’d,how  eagerly  I sought  to  strike 

Into  that  wondrous  track  of  dreams  again  ! 
But  no  two  dreams  are  like. 

As  when  a soul  laments,  which  hath  been 
blest. 

Desiring  what  is  mingled  with  past  years. 

In  yearnings  that  can  never  be  exprest 
By  signs  or  groans  or  tears ; 

Because  all  words,  tho’  cull’d  with  choicest 
art, 

Failing  to  give  the  bitter  of  the  sw'eet. 

Wither  beneath  the  palate,  and  the  heart 
Faints,  faded  by  its  heat. 


MARGARET. 


O SWEET  pale  Margaret, 

O rare  pale  Margaret, 

What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power. 
Like  moonlight  on  a falling  shower.^ 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale. 
Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower? 

From  the  westward- winding  flood. 


THE  BLACKBIRD.  — THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAR. 


From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 

From  all  things  outward  you  have  won 
A tearful  grace,  as  tho’  you  stood 

Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun. 

The  very  smile  before  you  speak. 

That  dimples  your  transparent  cheek, 
Encircles  all  the  heart,  and  feedeth 
The  senses  with  a still  delight 

Of  dainty  sorrow  without  sound, 

Like  the  tender  amber  round, 

Which  the  moon  about  her  spreadeth, 
Moving  thro’  a fleecy  night. 

2. 

You  love,  remaining  peacefully, 

To  hear  the  murmur  of  the  strife, 

But  enter  not  the  toil  of  life. 

Your  spirit  is  the  calmed  sea, 

Laid  by  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

You  are  the  evening  star,  alway 

Remaining  betwixt  dark  and  bright : 
Lull’d  echoes  of  laborious  day 

Come  to  you,  gleams  of  mellow  light 
Float  by  you  on  the  verge  of  night. 

3- 

What  can  it  matter,  Margaret,  ^ 

What  songs  below  the  waning  stars 
The  lion -heart,  Planiagenet, 

Sang  looking  thro’  his  prison  bars? 
Exquisite  Margaret,  who  can  tell 
The  last  wild  thought  of  Chatelet, 

Just  ere  the  fallen  axe  did  part 
The  burning  brain  from  the  true  heart. 
Even  in  her  sight  he  loved  so  well  ? 

4- 

A fairy  shield  your  Genius  made 

And  gave  you  on  your  natal  day. 

Your  sorrow,  only  sorrow’s  shade. 

Keeps  real  sorrow  far  away. 

You  move  not  in  such  solitudes. 

You  are  not  less  divine. 

But  more  human  in  your  moods, 

Than  your  twin-sister,  Adeline., 

Your  hair  is  darker,  and  your  eyes 

Touch’d  with  a somewhat  darker  hue, 
And  less  aerially  blue 
But  ever  trembling  thro’  the  dew 
Of  dainty-woful  sympathies. 

5. 

O sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O rare  pale  Margaret, 

Come  down,  come  down,  and  hear  me  speak: 
Tie  up  the  ringlets  on  your  cheek  : 

The  sun  is  just  about  to  set. 

The  arching  limes  are  tall  and  shady, 

And  faint,  rainy  lights  are  seen, 

Moving  in  the  leafy  beech. 

Rise  from  the  feast  of  sorrow,  lady. 

Where  all  day  long  you  sit  between 
Joy  and  woe,  and  whisper  each. 

Or  only  look  across  the  lawn, 

Look  out  below  your  bower-eaves. 

Look  down,  and  let  your  blue  eyes  dawn 
Upon  me  thro’  the  jasmine-leaves. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird  sing  me  soniething  well : 
While  all  the  neighbors  shoot  the  round. 

I keep  smooth  plats  of  fruitful  ground,  * 
Where  thou  may’st  warble,  eat,  and  dwell. 

The  espaliers  and  the  standards  all 
Are  thine  ; the  range  of  lawn  and  park: 
The  unnetted  black-hearts  ripen  dark. 

All  thine,  against  the  garden  wall. 

Yet,  tho’  I spared  thee  all  the  Spring, 

Thy  sole  delight  is,  sitting  still. 

With  that  gold  dagger  of  thy  bill 
To  fret  the  Summer  jenneting. 

A golden  bill ! the  silver  tongue. 

Cold  February  loved,  is  dry  : 

Plenty  corrupts  the  melody 
That  made  thee  famous  once,  when  young : 

And  in  the  sultry  garden -squares. 

Now  thy  flute-notes  are  changed  to  coarse, 
I hear  thee  not  at  all,  or  hoarse 
As  when  a hawker  hawks  his  wares. 

Take  warning  ! he  that  will  not  sing 
While  yon  sun  prospers  in  the  blue. 

Shall  sing  for  want,  ere  leaves  are  new', 
Caught  in  the  frozen  palms  of  Spring. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  YEAB 

Full  knee-deep  lies  the  winter  snow'. 

And  the  winter  w'inds  are  wearily  sighing  : 
Toll  ye  the  church-bell  sad  and  slow. 

And  tread  softly  and  speak  low. 

For  the  old  year  lies  a-dying. 

Old  year  you  must  not  die  ; 

You  came  to  us  so  readily. 

You  lived  with  us  so  steadily. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die. 

He  lieth  still : he  doth  not  move  : 

He  will  not  see  the  dawn  of  day. 

He  hath  no  other  life  above. 

He  gave  rne  a friend,  and  a true  true-love 
And  the  l^ew-year  w'ill  take  ’em  away. 

Old  year  you  must  not  go  ; 

So  long  as  you  have  been  with  us. 

Such  joy  as  you  have  seen  with  us. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  go. 

He  froth’d  his  bumpers  to  the  brim ; 

A jollier  year  we  shall  not  see. 

But  tho’  his  eyes  are  waxing  dim. 

And  tho’  his  foes  speak  ill  of  him, 

He  was  a friend  to  me. 

Old  year,  you  shall  not  die  ; 

We  did  so  laugh  and  cry  with  you, 

I ’ve  half  a mind  to  die  with  you. 

Old  year,  if  you  must  die. 

He  was  full  of  joke  and  jest. 

But  all  his  merry  quips  are  o’er. 

To  see  him  die  across  the  waste 
His  son  and  heir  doth  ride  post-haste. 


TO  7.  S.  — VOU  ASK  ME  WHY, 


But  he  ’ll  be  dead  before. 

Every  one  for  his  own. 

The  night  is  starry  and  cold,  my  friend, 
And  the  New-year  blithe  and  bold,  my 
friend, 

Comes  up  to  take  his  own. 

How  hard  he  breathes  ! oyer  the  snow 
1 heard  just  now  the  crowing  cock. 

The  shadows  flicker  to  and  fro  : 

The  cricket  chirps  : the  light  burns  low : 

’T  is  nearly  twelve  o’clock. 

Shake  hands,  before  you  die. 

Old  year,  we  ’ll  dearly  rue  for  you  : 

What  is  it  we  can  do  for  you  ? 

Speak  out  before  you  die. 

His  face  is  growing  sharp  and  thin. 

Alack  ! our  friend  is  gone. 

Close  up  his  eyes  ; tie  up  his  chin  : 

Step  from  the  corpse,  and  let  him  in 
That  standeth  there  alone. 

And  waiteth  at  the  door. 

There’s  a new  foot  on  the  floor,  my  friend. 
And  a new  face  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

A new  face  at  the  door. 


TO  J.  S. 

The  wind,  that  beats  the  mountain,  blows 
More  softly  round  the  open  wold, 

And  gently  comes  the  world  to  those 
That  are  cast  in  gentle  mould. 

And  me  this  knowledge  bolder  made, 

Or  else  I had  not  dare  to  flow 
In  these  words  toward  you,  and  invade 
Even  with  a verse  your  holy  woe. 

*T  is  strange  that  those  we  lean  on  most. 
Those  in  whose  laps  our  limbs  are 
nur.sed. 

Fall  into  shadow,  soonest  lost: 

Those  we  love  first  are  taken  first. 

God  gives  us  love.  Something  to  love 
He  lends  us  ; but,  when  love  is  grown 
To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve, 

F alls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone. 

This  is  the  curse  of  time.  Alas  ! 

In  grief  I am  not  all  unlearn’d  ; 

Once  thro’  mine  own  doors  Death  did  pass ; 
One  went,  who  never  hath  return’d. 

He  will  not  smile  — not  speak  to  me 

Once  more.  Two  years  his  chair  is  seen 
Empty  before  us.  That  was  he 

Without  whose  life  I had  not  been. 

Your  loss  is  rarer  ; for  this  star 
Rose  with  you  thro*  a little  arc 
Of  heaven,  nor  having  wander’d  far. 

Shot  on  the  sudden  into  dark. 

I knew  your  brother  : his  mute  dust 
I honor  and  his  living  worth  : 


A rnan  more  pure  and  bold  and  just 
Was  never  born  into  the  earth. 

I have  not  look’d  upon  you  nigh, 

Since  that  dear  soul  hath  fall’n  asleep. 
Great  Nature  is  more  wise  than  I : 

I will  not  tell  you  not  to  weep. 

And  tho’  mine  own  eyes  fill  with  dew. 
Drawn  from  the  spirit  thro’  the  brain, 

I w'ill  not  even  preach  to  you, 

“ Weep,  weeping  dulls  the  inward  pain.” 

Let  Grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 

She  lovelh  her  owm  anguish  deep 
More  than  much  pleasure.  Let  her  will 
Be  done  — to  weep  or  not  to  weep. 

I will  not  say  “God’s  ordinance 

Of  Death  is  blown  in  every  wind”; 

For  that  is  not  a common  chance 
That  takes  away  a noble  mind. 

His  memory  long  will  live  alone 

In  all  our  hearts,  as  mournful  light 
That  broods  above  the  fallen  sun. 

And  dwells  in  heaven  half  the  night. 

Vain  solace  ! Memory  standing  near 

Cast  dowm  her  eyes,  and  in  her  throat 
Her  voice  seem’d  distant,  and  a tear 
Dropt  on  the  letters  as  I wrote, 

I wrote  I know  not  what.  In  truth, 

How’  should  I soothe  you  anyway, 

Who  miss  the  brother  of  your  youth  ? 

Yet  something  I did  wish  to  say : 

For  he  too  was  a friend  to  me  : 

Both  are  my  friends,  and  my  true  breast 
Bleedeth  for  both  : yet  it  may  be 
That  only  silence  suiteth  best. 

Words  weaker  than  your  grief  would  make 
Grief  more.  ’T  were  better  I should 
cease  ; 

Although  myself  could  almost  take 

The  place  of  him  that  sleeps  in  peace. 

Sleep  sweetly,  tender  heart,  in  peace  : 

Sleep,  holy  spirit,  blessed  soul. 

While  the  stars  burn,  the  moons  increase, 
And  the  great  ages  onward  roll. 

Sleep  till  the  end,  true  soul  and  sweet. 

Nothing  comes  to  thee  new  or  strange, 
Sleep  full  of  rest  from  head  to  feet ; 

Lie  still,  dry  dust,  secure  of  change. 


You  ask  me,  why,  tho’  ill  at  ease, 
Within  this  region  I subsist. 
Whose  spirits  falter  in  the  mist, 
And  languish  for  the  purple  seas  i 


36  OF  OLD  SA  T FREEDOM.  - 

It  is  the  land  that  freemen  till, 

That  sober-suited  Freedom  chose, 

The  land,  where  girt  with  friends  or  foes 
A man  may  speak  the  thing  he  will  ; 

A land  of  s^tled  government, 

A land  of  just  and  old  renown, 

Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly  down 
From  precedent  to  precedent; 

Where  faction  seldom  gathers  head, 

But  by  degrees  to  fulness  wrought. 

The  strength  of  some  diffusive  thought 
Hath  time  and  space  to  work  and  spread. 

Should  banded  unions  persecute 
Opinion,  and  induce  a time 
When  single  thought  is  civil  crime. 

And  individual  freedom  mute  ; 

Tho’  Power  should  make  from  land  to  land 
The  name  of  Britain  trebly  great  — 
Tho’  every  channel  of  the  State 
Should  almost  choke  with  golden  sand  — 

Yet  waft  me  from  the  harbor-mouth, 

Wild  wind  1 I seek  a warmer  sky. 

And  I will  see  before  I die 
The  palms  and  temples  of  the  South, 


Of  old  sat  Freedom  on  the  heights. 

The  thunders  breaking  at  her  feet  : 

Above  her  shook  the  starry  lights  : 

She  heard  the  torrents  meet. 

There  in  her  place  she  did  rejoice, 
Self-gather’d  in  her  prophet-mind. 

But  fragments  of  her  mighty  voice 
Came  rolling  on  the  wind. 

Then  stept  she  down  thro’  town  and  field 
To  mingle  with  the  human  race, 

And  part  by  part  to  men  reveal’d 
The  fulness  of  her  face  — 

Grave  mother  of  majestic  works. 

From  her  isle-altar  gazing  down. 

Who,  God  like,  grasps  the  triple  forks. 

And,  King-like,  w'ears  the  crown  : 

Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth. 

The  wisdom  of  a thousand  years 

Is  in  them.  May  perpetual  youth 
Keep  dry  their  light  from  tears  ; 

That  her  fair  form  may  stand  and  shine. 

Make  bright  our  days  and  light  our 
dreams. 

Turning  to  scorn  with  lips  divine 
The  falsehood  of  extremes  ! 


LOVE  THOU  THY  LAND. 


Love  thou  thy  land,  with  love  far-brought 
From  out  the  storied  Past,  and  used 
Within  the  Present,  but  transfused 
Thro’  future  time  by  power  of  thought. 

True  love  turn’d  round  on  fixed  poles. 

Love,  that  endures  not  sordid  ends. 

For  English  natures,  freemen,  friends, 

Thy  brothers  and  immortal  souls. 

But  pamper  not  a hasty  time. 

Nor  feed  with  crude  imaginings 
The  herd,  wild  hearts  and  feeble  wings, 
That  every  sophister  can  lime. 

Deliver  not  the  tasks  of  might 
To  weakness,  neither  hide  the  ray 
From  those,  not  blind,  who  wait  for  day, 
Tho’  sitting  girt  with  doubtful  light. 

Make  knowledge  circle  with  the  winds  ; 

But  let  her  herald.  Reverence,  fly 
Before  her  to  whatever  sky 
Bear  seed  of  men  and  growth  of  minds. 

Watch  what  main-currents  draw  the  years  ; 
Cut  Prejudice  against  the  grain  : 

But  gentle  words  are  always  gain  ; 

Regard  the  weakness  of  thy  peers  ; 

Nor  toil  for  title,  place,  or  touch, 

Of  pension,  neither  count  on  praise  ; 

It  grow's  to  guerdon  after-days  : 

Nor  deal  in  watch- words  overmuch ; 

Not  clinging  to  some  ancient  saw  ; 

Not  master’d  by  some  modern  term  ; 

Not  sw'ift  or  slow  to  change,  but  firm  : 

And  in  its  season  bring  the  law' ; 

That  from  Discussion’s  lip  may  fall 

With  Life,  that,  working  strongly,  binds  — 
Set  in  all  lights  by  many  minds. 

To  close  the  interests  of  all. 

For  Nature,  also,  cold  and  w’arm. 

And  moist  and  dry,  devising  long, 

Thro’  many  agents  making  strong. 
Matures  the  individual  form. 

Meet  is  it  changes  should  control 
Our  being,  lest  w'e  rust  in  ease. 

We  all  are  changed  by  still  degrees. 

All  but  the  basis  of  the  soul. 

So  let  the  change  which  comes  be  free 
To  ingroove  itself  with  that,  w'hich  flies. 
And  w'ork,  a joint  of  state,  that  plies 
Its  office,  moved  with  sympathy. 

A saying,  hard  to  shape  in  act ; 

For  all  the  past  of  Time  reveals 
A bridal  dawn  of  thunder-peals. 

Wherever  Thought  hath  wedded  Fact. 

Ev’n  now  we  hear  with  inward  strife 
A motion  toiling  in  the  gloom  — 


THE  GOOSE. 


37 


The  Spirit  of  the  years  to  come 
Yearning  to  mix  himself  with  Life. 

A slow-develop’d  strength  aw'aits 
Completion  in  a painful  school ; 
Phantoms  of  other  forms  of  rule, 

New  Majesties  of  mighty  States  — 

The  warders  of  the  growing  hour, 

But  vague  in  vapor,  hard  to  mark  ; 

And  round  them  sea  and  air  are  dark 
With  great  contrivances  of  Power. 

Of  many  changes,  aptly  join’d. 

Is  bodied  forth  the  second  whole. 
Regard  gradation,  lest  the  soul 
Of  Discord  race  the  rising  w'ind  ; 

A wind  to  puff  your  idol-fires, 

And  heap  their  ashes  on  the  head  ; 

To  shame  the  boast  so  often  made, 

That  we  are  wiser  than  our  sires. 

O yet,  if  Nature’s  evil  star 

Drive  men  iii  manhood,  as  in  youth. 

To  follow'  flying  steps  of  Truth 
Across  the  brazen  bridge  of  war  — 

If  New  and  Old,  disastrous  feud, 

Must  ever  shock,  like  armed  foes. 

And  this  be  true,  till  Time  shall  close. 
That  Principles  are  rain’d  in  blood  ; 

Not  yet  the  w'ise  of  heart  would  cease 
To  hold  his  hope  thro’  shame  and  guilt, 
But  with  his  hand  against  the  hilt. 
Would  pace  the  troubled  land,  like  Peace ; 

Not  less,  tho’  dogs  of  Faction  bay. 

Would  serve  his  kind  in  deed  and  word, 
Certain,  if  knowledge  bring  the  sword. 
That  knowledge  takes  the  sword  away  — 

Would  love  the  gleams  of  good  that  broke 
From  either  side,  nor  veil  his  eyes  : 

And  if  some  dreadful  need  should  rise 
Would  strike,  and  firmly,  and  one  stroke  : 

To-morrow  yet  would  reap  to-day. 

As  we  bear  blossom  of  the  dead ; 

Earn  w'ell  the  thrifty  months,  nor  wed 
Raw  Haste,  half-sister  to  Delay, 


THE  GOOSE. 

I KNEW  an  old  wife  lean  and  poor. 
Her  rags  scarce  held  together  ; 
There  strode  a stranger  to  the  door. 
And  it  was  windy  weather. 

He  held  a goose  upon  his  arm. 

He  utter’d  rhyme  and  reason, 


“ Here,  take  the  goose,  and  keep  you  w'arm, 
It  is  a stormy  season.” 

She  caught  the  white  goose  by  the  leg. 

A goose  — ’t  w'as  no  great  matter. 

The  goose  let  fall  a golden  egg 
With  cackle  and  with  clatter. 

She  dropt  the  goose,  and  caught  the  pelf. 
And  ran  to  tell  her  neighbors ; 

And  bless’d  herself,  and  cursed  herself. 

And  rested  from  her  labors. 

And  feeding  high,  and  living  soft. 

Grew  plump  and  able-bodied  ; 

Until  the  grave  churchwarden  doff’d. 

The  parson  smirk’d  and  nodded. 

So  sitting,  served  by  man  and  maid. 

She  felt  her  heart  grow  prouder; 

But  ah  ! the  more  the  white  goose  laid 
It  clack’d  and  cackled  louder. 

It  clutter’d  here,  it  chuckled  there  ; 

It  stirr’d  the  old  wife’s  mettle  ; 

She  shifted  in  her  elbow-chair, 

And  hurl’d  the  pan  and  kettle. 

“ A quinsy  choke  thy  cursed  note  ! ” 

Then  wax’d  her  anger  stronger. 

“ Go,  take  the  goose,  and  wring  her  throat, 

I will  not  bear  it  longer.” 

Then  yelp’d  the  cur,  and  yaw'l’d  the  cat; 

Ran  Gaffer,  stumbled  Gammer, 

The  goose  flew  this  way  and  flew'  that, 

And  fill’d  the  house  with  clamor. 

As  head  and  heels  upon  the  floor 
They  floundered  all  together. 

There  strode  a stranger  to  the  door. 

And  it  was  windy  weather  : 

He  took  the  goose  upon  his  arm. 

He  utter’d  words  of  scorning  ; 

“ So  keep  you  cold,  or  keep  you  warm. 

It  is  a stormy  morning.” 

The  vvild  wind  rang  from  park  and  plain. 
And  round  the  attics  rumbled. 

Till  all  the  tables  danced  again, 

And  half  the  chimneys  tumbled. 

The  glass  blew  in,  the  fire  blew  out, 

The  blast  was  hard  and  harder. 

Her  cap  blew  off,  her  gown  blew  up. 

And  a whirlwind  clear’d  the  larder  ; 

And  while  on  all  sides  breaking  loose 
Her  household  fled  the  danger. 

Quoth  she,  “ The  Devil  take  the  goose, 

And  God  forget  the  stranger  1 ” 


I 

38  THE  EPIC.—  MORTE  H ARTHUR. 


ENGLISH  IDYLS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


(published  1842.) 


THE  EPIC. 

At  Francis  Allen’s  on  the  Christmas-eve,  — 
The  game  of  forfeits  done  — the  girls  all  kiss’d 
Beneath  the  sacred  bush  and  past  away  — 
The  parson  Holmes,  the  poet  Everard  Hall, 
The  host,  and  I sat  round  the  vvassail-bowl, 
Then  half-way  ebb’d : and  there  we  held  a 
talk. 

How  all  the  old  honor  had  from  Christmas 
gone, 

Or  gone,  or  dwindled  down  to  some  odd  games 
In  some  odd  nooks  like  this;  till  I,  tired  out 
With  cutting  eights  that  day  upon  the  pond. 
Where,  three  times  slipping  from  the  outer 
edge, 

I bump’d  the  ice  into  three  several  stars. 

Fell  in  a doze ; and  half-awake  I heard 
The  parson  taking  wide  and  wider  sweeps, 
Now  harping  on  the  church-commissioners. 
Now  hawking  at  Geology  and  schism  ; 

Until  I woke,  and  found  him  settled  dowm 
Upon  the  general  decay  of  faith 
Right  thro’ the  world,  “at  home  w-as  little  left. 
And  none  abroad  : there  was  no  anchor,  none, 
To  hold  by.”  Francis,  laughing,  clapt  his 
hand 

On  Everard’s  shoulder,  with  “I  hold  by 
him.” 

“And  I,”  quoth  Everard,  “by  the  wassail- 
bowl.” 

“ Why  yes,”  I said,  “ we  knew  your  gift  that 
way 

At  college  : but  another  which  you  had 
I mean  of  verse  (for  so  we  held  it  then,) 
What  came  of  that  ? ” “ You  know,”  said 
Frank,  “ he  burnt 

His  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  some  twelve 
books  ” — 

And  then  to  me  demanding  why  ? “ O,  sir. 

He  thought  that  nothing  new  was  said,  or  else 
Something  so  said  ’t  was  nothing — that  a 
truth 

Looks  freshest  in  the  fashion  of  the  day : 

God  knows  : he  has  a mint  of  reasons  : ask. 

It  pleased^  me  well  enough.”  “ Nay,  nay,” 
said  Hall, 

“ Why  take  the  style  of  those  heroic  times? 
For  nature  brings  not  back  the  Mastodon, 
Nor  we  those  times  ; and  why  should  any  man 
Remodel  models?  these  twelve  books  of  mine 
Were  faint  Homeric  echoes,  nothing-worth. 
Mere  chaff  and  draff,  much  better  burnt.” 
“ But  I,” 

Said  Francis,  “pick’d  the  eleventh  from  this 
hearth. 

And  have  it : keep  a thing,  its  use  will  come. 

1 hoard  it  as  a sugar-plum  for  Holmes.” 

He  laugh’d,  and  I,  though  sleepy,  like  a horse 


That  hears  the  corn-bin  open,  prick’d  myears ; 
For  I remember’d  Everard’s  college  fame 
When  we  were  Freshmen  : then  at  my  request 
He  brought  it  ; and  the  poet  little  urged. 

But  with  some  prelude  of  disparagement. 
Read,  mouthing  out  his  hollow'  oes  and  aes. 
Deep-chested  music,  and  to  this  result. 


MORTE  D’ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll’d 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea; 
Until  King  Arthur’s  table,  man  by  man. 

Had  fall’n  in  L^'onness  about  their  Lord, 
King  Arthur  : then,  because  his  wound  w'as 
deep, 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights. 

And  bore  him  to  a chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A broken  chancel  with  a broken  cross, 

That  stood  on  a dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
“The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellow'sh ip  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such  a 
sleep 

They  sleep  — the  men  I loved.  I think  that 
we 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 

Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  w ere. 

I perish  by  this  people  w hich  I made,  — 

Tho’  Merlin  sware  that  I should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more  — but  let  what  w-ill  be,  be, 
I am  so  deeply  smitten  thro’  the  helm 
That  without  help  I cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  ; for  thou  rememberest 
how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
Holding  the  sword  — and  how'  I rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a king  : 
And,  wheresoever  I am  sung  or  told 
In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 

But  now  delay  not : take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word.” 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bevidere  : 

“ It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave*thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro’  the  helm. 

A little  thing  may  harm  a wounded  man. 

Yet  I thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full, 


MQR  TE  D'A  R THUR.  39 


Watch  what  I see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 
word.” 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-windsang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He,  step- 
ping down 

By  zig-zag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excallbur, 
And  o’er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a long  cloud,  ran 
forth 

And  sparkled  keen  wuth  frost  against  the  hilt ; 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  studs, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewellery.  He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  w'ere  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 

In  act  to  throw : but  at  the  last  it  seem’d 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal’d 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 

“ Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I 
gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  or  what  hast 
heard?  ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

“ I heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and 
pale ; 

“Thou  hast  betray’d  thy  nature  and  thy 
name. 

Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem’d 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a noble  knight : 

For  surer  sign  had  follow’d,  either  hand. 

Or  voice,  or  else  a motion  of  the  mere. 

This  is  a shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 

Yet  now,  I charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word.” 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix’d  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 
smote  • 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud. 

“ And  if  indeed  I cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many 
men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were 
done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ? deep  harm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 
And  rumors  of  a doubt?  but  were  this  kept. 


Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 
kings. 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  ‘ King  Arthur’s  sword,  Excalibur, 

I Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.* 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 
To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were 
lost.” 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 

And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heav- 
ily  : ^ 

“What  is  ;t  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  hast 
heard  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

“ I heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.” 
To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in 
wrath : 

“ Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  ! Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a dying  king. 

Laid  widow’d  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow’d  the  will.  I see  thee  what  thou 
art. 

For  thou,  the  latest  left  of  all  my  knights. 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 

Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 
Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 
hence : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.” 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 
Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutch’d  the 
sword. 

And  strongly  wheel’d  and  threw  it.  The  great 
brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the' splendor  of  the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl’d  in 
an  arch. 

Shot  like  a streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 

So  flash’d  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  ; 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Cloth’d  in'  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish’d 
him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere. 
And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King 
Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker 
breath  : 

“ Now  see  I by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out : what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 
seen?” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

“ Sir  King,  I closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 
gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I never  saw, 


40 


MORTE  D' ARTHUR. 


Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I die, 
Not  tho’  I live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 

So  great  a miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I flung  him,  wheeling 
him  ; 

But  when  I look’d  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
That,  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish’d 
him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere.” 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing 
hard : 

“ My  end  draws  nigh  ; ’tis  time  that  I were 
gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 
weight. 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ; yet  I fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I shall  die.” 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro’  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not 
words, 

Then  took  withcare,  and  kneeling  on  oneknee. 
O’er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 
hands. 

And  rising  bore  him  thro’  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk’d.  King  Arthur  panted 
hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So  sigh’d  the 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear  “ Quick, 
quick ! 

I fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I shall  die.” 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to 
ridge. 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he 
walk’d. 

Larger  than  human  cAi  the  frozen  hills.' 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a cry 
Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a 
goad. 

Dry  clash’d  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms, 'and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang’d  round  him,  as  he 
based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a sudden,  lo  ! the  level  lake. 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a dusky 
barge, 

Dark  as  a funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them  ; and  descending  they  were 
ware 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately 
forms 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a dream  — 
by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and 
from  them  rose 

A cry  that  shiver’d  to  the  tingling  stars, 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a wind,  that  shrills 


All  night  in  a waste  land,  where  no  one  comes. 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 
Then  murmur’d  Arthur,  “ Place  me  in  the 
barge,” 

And  to  the  barge  they  came.  There  those 
three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King, 
and  wept. 

But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 

And  loosed  the  shatter’d  casque,  and  chafed 
his  hands. 

And  call’d  him  by  his  name, complaining  loud, 
And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood : for  all  his  face  was 
white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  wither’d  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 
east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash’d  with 
drops 

Of  onset ; and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais-throne  — were  parch’d 
with  dust ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose, 
Mix’d  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 
his  lips. 

So  like  a shatter’d  column  lay  the  King  f 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest. 
From  .spur  to  plume  a star  of  tournament, 
Shot  thro’  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 

. “ Ah  ! my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I go.^ 
Where  shall  I hide  my  forehead  and  my 
eyes? 

For  now  I see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  hath 
led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  round  table  is*  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds.” 
And  slowly  answer’d  Arthur  from  the 
barge  ; 

“The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 
new. 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways. 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 
world. 

Comfort  thyself : what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I have 
done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  ! but  thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 
Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are  wrought 
by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Wherefore,  let 
thy  voice 

Rise  like  a fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a blind  life  within  the  brain. 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER. 


Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 
friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.  I am  going  a long  way 
With  these  thou  seest  — if  indeed  I go  — 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  oi  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ; but  it  lies 
Deep-meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with  orchard- 
lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown’d  with  summer 
sea, 

Where  I will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound.” 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted 
swan  — 

That,  fluting  a wild  carol  ere  her  death. 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the 
flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look’d  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 
dawn. 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 


Here  ended  Hall,  and  our  last  light,  that 
long 

Had  w'ink’d  and  threaten’d  darkness,  flared 
and  fell  : 

At  which  the  Parson,  sent  to  sleep  with 
sound. 

And  waked  with  silence,  grunted  “ Good  ! ” 
but  we 

Sat  rapt : it  was  the  tone  with  which  he  read  — 
Perhaps  some  modern  touches  here  and  there 
Redeem’d  it  from  the  charge  of  nothing- 
ness— 

Or  else  we  loved  the  man,  and  prized  his 
work ; 

I know  not : but  we  sitting,  as  I said. 

The  cock  crew  loud  ; as  at  that  time  of  year 
The  lusty  bird  takes  every  hour  for  dawn  : 
Then  Francis,  muttering,  like  a man  ill-used, 
“There  now — that ’s  nothing  !”  drew  a little 
back. 

And  drove  his  heel  into  the  smoulder’d  log. 
That  sent  a blast  of  sparkles  up  the  flue  ; 
And  so  to  bed  ; where  yet  in  sleep  I seem’d 
To  sail  with  Arthur  under  looming  shores, 
Point  after  point ; till  on  to  dawn,  when 
dreams 

Begin  to  feel  the  truth  and  stir  of  day. 

To  me,  methought,  who  w-aited  with  a crowd, 
There  came  a bark  that,  blowing  forward, 
bore 

King  Arthur,  like  a modern  gentleman 
Of  stateliest  port ; and  all  the  people  cried, 

“ Arthur  is  come  again  : he  cannot  die.” 
Then  those  that  stood  upon  the  hills  behind 
Repeated  — “ Come  again,  and  thrice  as 
fair  ” ; 

And,  further  inland,  voices  echoed  — “ Come 
With  all  good  things,  and  war  shall  be  no 
more.” 

At  this  a hundred  bells  began  to  peal, 


41 

That  w'ith  the  sound  I woke,  and  heard  in- 
deed 

The  clear  church-bells  ring  in  the  Christmas 
morn. 


THE  GARDENER’S  DAUGHTER; 
OR,  THE  PICTURES. 

This  morning  is  the  morning  of  the  day. 
When  I and  Eustace  from  the  city  went 
To  see  the  Gardener’s  Daughter  ; I and  he, 
Brothers  in  Art  ; a friendship  so  complete 
Portion’d  in  halves  between  us,  that  we  grew 
The  fable  of  the  city  where  we  dwelt. 

My  Eustace  might  have  sat  for  Hercules ; 
So  muscular  he  spread,  so  broad  of  breast. 
He,  by  some  law  that  holds  in  love,  and  draws 
The  greater  to  the  lesser,  long  desired  * 
A certain  miracle  of  symmetry, 

A miniature  of  loveliness,  all  grace 
Summ’d  up  and  closed  in  little  ; — Juliet,  she 
So  light  of  foot,  so  light  of  spirit  — oh,  she 
To  me  myself,  for  some  three  careless  moons. 
The  summer  pilot  of  an  empty  heart 
Unto  the  shores  of  nothing  ! Know  you  not 
Such  touches  are  but  embassies  of  love. 

To  tamper  with  the  feelings,  ere  he  found 
Empire  for  life?  but  Eustace  painted  her, 
And  said  to  me,  she  sitting  with  us  then,* 

“ When  will  ^ou  paint  like  this?  ” and  I re- 
plied, 

(My  words  were  half  in  earnest,  half  in  jest,) 
“ ’T  is  not  your  work,  but  Love’s.  Love, 
unperceived, 

A more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all. 

Came,  drew  your  pencil  from  you,  made  those 
eyes 

Darker  than  darkest  pansies,  and  that  hair 
More  black  than  ashbuds  in  the  front  of 
March.” 

And  Juliet  answer’d  laughing,  “Go  and  see 
The  Gardener’s  daughter : trust  me,  after 
that. 

You  scarce  can  fail  to  match  his  masterpiece.” 
And  up  we  rose,  and  on  the  spur  we  went. 

Not  wholly  in  the  busy  world,  nor  quite 
Beyond  it,  blooms  the  garden  that  I love. 
News  from  the  humming  city  comes  to  it 
In  sound  of  funeral  or  of  marriage  bells  ; 
And,  sitting  muffled  in  dark  leaves,  you  hear 
The  windy  clanging  of  the  minster  clock  ; 
Although  between  it  and  the  garden  lies 
A league  of  grass,  wash’d  by  a slow  broad 
stream. 

That,  stirr’d  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 
Waves  all  its  lazy  lilies,  and  creeps  on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three  arches  of  a bridge 
Crown’d  with  the  minster  towers. 

The  fields  between 
Are  dewy-fresh,  browsed  by  deep-udder’d 
kine. 

And  all  about  the  large  lime  feathers  low. 
The  lime  a summer  home  of  murmurous 
wings. 

In  that  still  place  she,  hoarded  in  herself. 
Grew,  seldom  seen  : not  less  among  us  lived 
Her  fame  from  lip  to  lip.  Who  had  not  heard 


THE  GARDE NER\^  DAUGHTER. 


Of  Rose,  the  Gardener’s  daughter?  Where 
was  he, 

So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart. 

At  such  a distance  from  his  youth  in  grief. 
That,  having  seen,  forgot?  The  common 
mouth 

So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 
Grew  oratory.  Such  a lord  is  Love, 

And  Beauty  such  a mistress  of  the  world. 

And  if  I said  that  Fancy,  led  by  Love, 
Would  play  with  flying  forms  and  images, 
Yet  this  is  also  true,  that,  long  before 
I look’d  upon  her,  when  I heard  her  name 
My  heart  was  like  a prophet  to  my  heart 
And  told  me  I should  love.  A crowd  of  hopes. 
That  sought  to  sow  themselves  like  winged 
seeds. 

Born  out  of  everything  I heard  and  saw, 
Flutter’d  about  my  senses  and  my  soul ; 

And  vague  desires,  like  fitful  blasts  of  balm 
To  one  that  travels  quickly,  made  the  air 
Of  Life  delicious,  and  all  kinds  of  thought. 
That  verged  upon  them,  sweeter  than  the 
dream 

Dream’d  by  a happy  .man,  when  the  dark 
East, 

Unseen,  is  brightening  to  his  bridal  morn. 

And  sure  this  orbit  of  the  memory  folds 
Forever  in  itself  the  day  we  went 
To  see  her.  All  the  land  in  flowery  squares 
Beneath  a broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large 
cloud 

Drew  downward  ; but  all  else  of  Heaven  was 
pure 

Up  to  the  Sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge. 
And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel.  And 
now. 

As  tho’  ’t  were  yesterday,  as  tho’  it  were 
The  hour  just  flown,  that  morn  with  all  its 
sound, 

(For  those  old  Mays  had  thrice  the  life  of 
these,) 

Rings  in  mine  ears.  The  steer  forgot  to 
graze. 

And,  where  the  hedge-row  cuts  the  pathway, 
stood. 

Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field. 
And  lowing  to  his  fellows.  From  the  woods 
Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 
The.  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for 
joy 

But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  near’d 
His  happy  home,  the  ground.  To  left  and 
right. 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills  ; 
The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm  ; 

The  redcap  whistled  ; and  the  nightingale 
Sang  loud,  as  tho’  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

And  Eustace  turn’d,  and  smiling  said  to 
me, 

“ Hear  how  the  bushes  echo  ! by  my  life. 
These  birds  have  joyful  thoughts.  Think 
you  they  sing 

Like  poets,  from  the  vanity  of  song  ? 

Or  have  they  any  sense  of  why  they  sing? 
And  would  they  praise  the  heavens  for  what 
they  have  ? ” 


And  I made  answer,  “Were  there  nothing 
else 

For  which  to  praise  the  heavens  but  only 
love, 

That  only  love  w'ere  cause  enough  for  praise.” 
Lightly  he  laugh’d,  as  one  that  read  my 
thought. 

And  on  we  went  ; but  ere  an  hour  had  pass’d. 
We  reach’d  a meadow  slanting  to  the  North  ; 
Down  which  a well-worn  pathway  courted  us 
To  one  green  wicket  m a privet  hedge  ; 

This,  yielding,  gave  into  a grassy  walk 
Thro’  crowded  lilac-ambush  trimly  pruned  ; 
And  one  warm  gust,  full-fed  with  perfume, 
blew 

Beyond  us,  as  we  enter’d  in  the  cool. 

The  garden  stretches  southward.  In  the  midst 
A cedar  spread  his  dark-green  layers  of  shade. 
The  garden-glasses  shone,  and  momently 
The  twinkling  laurel  scatter’d  silver  lights. 

“ Eustace,”  I said,  “ this  wonder  keeps 
the  house.” 

He  nodded,  but  a moment  afterwards 
He  cried,  “ Look  ! look  ! ” Before  he  ceased 
I turn’d, 

And,  ere  a star  can  wank,  beheld  her  there. 
For  up  the  porch  there  grew  an  Eastern 
rose. 

That,  flowering  high,  the  last  night’s  gale 
had  caught. 

And  blown  across  the  walk.  One  arm  aloft  — 
Gown’d  in  pure  white,  that  fitted  to  the 
shape  — 

Holding  the  bush,  to  fix  it  back,  she  stood. 

A single  stream  of  all  her  soft  brown  hair 
Pour’d  on  one  side : the  shadow  of  the  flowers 
Stole  all  the  golden  gloss,  and,  wavering 
Lovingly  lower,  trembled  on  her  waist  — 

Ah,  happy  shade  — and  still  went  wavering 
down. 

But,  ere  it  touch’d  a foot,  that  might  have 
danced 

The  greensward  into  greener  circles,  dipt. 
And  mix’d  with  shadows  of  the  common 
ground  ! 

But  the  full  day  dwelt  on  her  brows,  and 
sunn’d 

Her  violet  eyes,  and  all  her  Hebe-bloom, 
And  doubled  his  own  warmth  against  her  lips. 
And  on  the  bounteous  wave  of  such  a breast 
As  never  pencil  drew.  Half  light,  half  shade, 
•She  stood,  a sight  to  make  an  old  man  young. 
So  rapt,  we  near’d  the  house ; but  she,  a 
Rose 

In  roses,  mingled  with  her  fragrant  toil. 

Nor  heard  us  come,  nor  from  her  tendance 
turn’d 

Into  the  world  without ; till  close  at  hand. 
And  almost  ere  I knew  mine  own  intent. 
This  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  that  air 
Which  brooded  round  about  her  : 

“ Ah,  one  rose. 
One  rose,  but  one,  by  those  fair  fingers  cull’d. 
Were  worth  a hundred  kisses  press’d  on  lips 
Less  exquisite  than  thine.” 

She  look’d  : but  all 
Suffused  with  blushes  — neither  self-pos- 
sess’d 


THE  GARDENER'S  DAUGHTER.  43 


Nor  startled,  but  betwixt  this  mood  and  that, 
Divided  in  a graceful  quiet  — paused, 

And  dropt  the  branch  she  held,  and  turning, 
wound 

Her  looser  hair  in  braid,  and  stirr’d  her  lips 
For  some  sweet  answer,  tho’  no  answer  came, 
Nor  yet  refused  the  rose,  but  granted  it. 

And  moved  away,  and  left  me,  statue-like, 

In  act  to  render  thanks. 

I,  that  whole  day, 

Saw  her  no  more,  altho’  1 linger’d  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept,  and  Love’s  white  star 
Beam’d  thro’  the  thicken’d  cedar  in  the  dusk. 

So  home  we  w'ent,  and  all  the  livelong  way 
With  solemn  gibe  did  Eustace  banter  me. 
“Now,”  said  he,  “will  you  climb  the  top  of 
Art. 

You  cannot  fail  but  wwk  in  hues  to  dim 
The  Titianic  Flora.  Will  you  match 
My  Juliet?  you,  not  you,  — the  Master, 
Love, 

A more  ideal  Artist  he  than  all.” 

So  home  I went,  but  could  not  sleep  for  joy, 
Reading  her  perfect  features  in  the  gloom. 
Kissing  the  rose  she  gave  me  o’er  and  o’er, 
And  shaping  faithful  record  of  the  glance 
That  graced  the  giving  — such  a noise  of  life 
Swarm’d  in  the  golden  present,  such  a voice  j 
Call’d  to  me  from  the  years  to  come,  and  such 
A length  of  bright  horizon  rimm’d  the  dark.  I 
And  all  that  night  I heard  the  w-atchmen  peal 
The  sliding  season  : all  that  night  I heard 
The  heavy  clocks  knolling  the  drowsy  hours. 
The  drow’sy  hours,  dispensers  of  all  good, 
O’er  the  mute  city  stole  with  folded  wings,. 
Distilling  odors  on  me  as  they  went 
To  greet  their  fairer  sisters  of  the  East. 

Love  at  first  sight,  first-born,  and  heir  to  all. 
Made  this  night  thus.  Henceforward  squall 
nor  storm 

Could  keep  me  from  that  Eden  where  she 
dwelt. 

Light  pretexts  drew  me  : sometimes  a Dutch 
love 

For  tulips  ; then  for  roses,  moss  or  musk. 

To  grace  my  city-rooms  : or  fruits  and  cream 
Served  in  the  w'eeping  elm ; and  more  and 
more 

A word  could  bring  the  color  to  my  cheek  ; 

A thought  would  fill  my  eyes  with  happy 
dew ; 

Love  trebled  life  within  me,  and  with  each 
The  year  increased. 

The  daughters  of  the  year. 
One  after  one,  thro’  that  still  garden  pass’d  : 
Each  garlanded  with  her  peculiar  flower 
Danced  into  light,  and  died  into  the  shade  ; 
And  each  in  passing  touch’d  with  some  new 
grace 

Or  seem’d  to  touch  her,  so  that  day  by  day. 
Like  one  that  never  can  be  wholly  known. 
Her  beauty  grew ; till  Autumn  brought  an 
hour 

For  Eustace,  when  I heard  his  deep  “I  will,” 
Breathed,  like  the  covenant  of  a God,  to  hold 
From  thence  thro’  all  the  worlds  : but  I rose 
up. 

Full  of  his  bliss,  and  following  her  dark  eyes 


Felt  earth  as  air  beneath  me,  till  I reach’d 
The  wicket-gate,  and  found  her  standing 
there. 

There  sat  we  down  upon  a garden  mound. 
Two  mutually  enfolded  ; Love,  the  third, 
Between  us,  in  the  circle  of  his  arms 
Enwound  us  both  ; and  over  many  a range 
Of  waning  lime  the  gray  cathedral  towers, 
Across  a hazy  glimmer  of  the  west. 

Reveal’d  their  shining  windows  : from  them 
clash’d 

The  bells ; w^e  listen’d ; wdth  the  time  we 
play’d ; 

We  spoke  of  other  things  ; we  coursed  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and 
near. 

Like  doves  about  a dovecote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 
Then,  in  that  lime  and  place,  1 spoke  to 
her. 

Requiring,  tho’  I knew  it  w^as  mine  own. 

Yet  for  the  pleasure  that  1 took  to  hear, 
Requiring  at  her  hand  the  greatest  gift, 

A woman’s  heart,  the  heart  of  her  I loved  ; 
And  in  that  time  and  place  she  answ^er’d  me. 
And  in  the  compass  of  three  little  words. 
More  musical  than  ever  came  in  one, 

The  silver  fragments  of  a broken  voice, 
Made  me  most  happy,  faltering  “I  am 
thine.” 

Shall  I cease  here  ? Is  this  enough  to  say 
That  my  desire,  like  all  strongest  hopes, 

By  its  own  energy  fulfill’d  itself. 

Merged  in  completion?  Would  you  learn  at 
full 

How  passion  rose  thro’  circumstantial  grades 
Beyond  all  grades  develop’d?  and  indeed 
I had  not  srayed  so  long  to  tell  you  all, 

But  while  I mused  came  Memory  with  sad 
eyes. 

Holding  the  folded  annals  of  my  youth  ; 

And  while  I mused.  Love  with  knit  brows 
w^ent  by. 

And  with  a flying  finger  sw-ept  my  lips. 

And  spake,  “ Be  wise  : not  easily  forgiven 
Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors  that 
bar 

The  secret  bridal  chambers  of  the  heart, 

Let  in  the  day.”  Here,  then,  my  words  have 
end. 

Yet  might  I tell  of  meetings,  of  farewells  — 
Of  that  w'hich  came  between,  more  sweet 
than  each. 

In  whispers,  like  the  whispers  of  the  leaves 
That  tremble  round  a nightingale  — in  sighs 
Which  perfect  Joy,  perplex’d  for  utterance. 
Stole  from  her  sister  Sorrow.  Might  I not  tell 
Of  difference,  reconcilement,  pledges  given. 
And  vows,  where  there  was  never  need  of 
vows. 

And  kisses,  w'here  the  heart  on  one  wild  leap 
Hung  tranced  from  all  pulsation,  as  above 
The  heavens  between  their  fairy  fleeces  pale 
Sow’d  all  their  mystit  gulfs  with  fleeting  stars; 
Or  while  the  balmy  glooming,  crescent-lit. 
Spread  the  light  haze  along  the  river-shores, 
And  in  the  hollows  ; or  as  once  we  met 
Unheedful,  tho’  beneath  a whispering  rain 


DORA. 


44 

Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sighing 
wind, 

And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep. 

But  this  w'hole  hour  your  eyes  have  been 
intent 

On  that  veil’d  picture  — veil’d,  for  what  it 
holds 

May  not  be  dwelt  on  by  the  common  day. 

This  prelude  has  prepared  thee.  Raise  thy 
soul  ; 

Make  thine  heart  ready  with  thine  eyes  ; the 
time 

Is  come  to  raise  the  veil. 

Behold  her  there, 

As  I beheld  her  ere  she  knew  my  heart, 

My  first,  last  love ; the  idol  of  my  youth. 

The  darling  of  my  manhood,  and,  alas  ! 

Now  the  most  blessed  memory  of  mine  age. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.  William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.  He  often  look’d  at  them. 
And  often  thought  “ I’ll  make  them  man  and 
wife.  ’ 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle’s  will  in  all. 

And  yearn’d  towards  William  ; but  the  youth, 
because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a day 
When  Allan  call’d  his  son,  and  said,  “ My 
son  : 

I married  late,  but  I would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I die  : 
And  I have  set  my  heart  upon  a match. 

Now  therefore  look  to  Dora ; she  is  well 
To  look  to  ; thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 

She  is  my  brother’s  daughter : he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands  ; but  for  his  sake  I bred 
His  daughter  Dora  ; take  her  for  your  wife  ; 
For  I have  wish’d  this  marriage,  night  and 
day. 

For  many  years.”  But  William  answer’d 
short : 

“ I cannot  marry  Dora ; by  my  life, 

I will  not  marry  Dora,”  Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and 
said : 

“ You  will  not,  boy  ! you  dare  to  answer  thus  ! 
But  in  m3  time  a father’s  word  was  law. 

And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me,  Look  to  it : 
Consider,  William  : take  a month  to  think. 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 

Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack. 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  a^ain.” 
But  William  answer’d  madly;  bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.  The  more  he  look’d  at  her 
The  less  he  liked  her;  and  his  ways  were 
harsh ; 

But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.  Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father’s  house. 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields  ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo’d  and  wed 
A laborer’s  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 


Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan 
call’d 

His  niece  and  said  : “ My  girl,  I love  you  well; 

But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  sen. 

Or  change  a word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 

My  home  is  none  of  yours.  My  will  is  law.” 

And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She 
thought, 

“ It  cannot  be : m^  uncle’s  mind  will  change  I” 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a boy 
To  William  ; then  distresses  came  on  him  ; 

And  day  by  day  he  pass’d  his  father’s  gate. 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help’d  him  not, 

But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save. 

And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they 
know 

Who  sent  it ; till  at  last  a fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.  Mary  sat 
And  look’d  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and 

thought  * 

Hard  things  of  Dora.  Dora  came  and  said  : 

“T  have  obey’d  finy  uncle  until  now,  . 

And  I have  sinn’d,  for  it  was  all  thro’  me  . 

This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first.  / , 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that ’s  gone,  ' 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose,  I 

And  for  this  orphan,  I am  come  to  you  : 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five 

vears  ] 

So  full  a harvest : let  me  take  the  boy,  ? 

And  I will  set  him  in  my  uncle’s  eye 
Among  the  wheat ; that  when  his  heart  is  glad 
Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that 's  ; 

gone.” 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way  '! 

Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a mound  < 

That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew.  ’ 

Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field  i 

And  spied  her  not ; for  none  of  all  his  men  ; 

Dare  tell  him  Dora  w'aited  with  the  child  ; | 

And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him,  ^ 

But  her  heart  fail’d  her ; and  the  reapers 

reap’d,  > 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark.  } 

But  w'hen  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  1 

took 

The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound; 

And  made  a little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle’s  eye. 

Then  when  the  farmer  pass’d  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 

And  came  and  said  ; “ Where  w'ere  you  yes- 
terday ? 

Whose  child  is  that  ! What  are  you  doing 
here?” 

So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

And  answer’d  softly,  “ This  is  William’s 
child  ! ” 

“And  did  I not,”  said  Allan,  “did  I not 
Forbid  you,  Dora  ? ” Dora  said  again, 

“ Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that ’s  .^1 

gone  ! ” ...  ^ 

And  Allan  said,  “ I see  it  is  a trick  # 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there.  .4 


AUDLEY  COURT, 


I must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you  ! 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you 
dared 

To  slight  it.  Well  — for  I will  take  the  boy  ; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more.” 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.  The  wreath  of  flowers 
fell 

At  Dora’s  feet.  She  bow’d  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy’s  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.  She  bow’d  down 
her  head, 

Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came. 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.  She 
bow’d  down 

And  wept  in  secret  ; and  the  reapers  reap’d. 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
Then  Dora  went  to  Mary’s  house,  and 
stood 

Upon  the  threshold.  Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.  She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help’d  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  ” My  uncle  took  the  boy  ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you  : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more.” 
Then  answer’d  Mary,  ” This  shall  never  be. 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thy- 
self: 

And,  now  I think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother  ; therefore  thou  and  I will  go 
And  I will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home  ; 
And  I will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back  ; 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 

Then  thou  and  I will  live  within  one  house. 
And  work  for  William’s  child,  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us.” 

So  the  women  kiss’d 

Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach’d  the 
farm. 

The  door  was  off  the  latch  : they  peep’d,  and 
saw 

The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire’s  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks. 
Like  one  that  loveH  him ; and  the  lad 
stretch’d  out 

And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan’s  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the 
fire. 

Then  they  came  in : but  when  the  boy 
beheld 

His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her  : 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  Mary  said  : 

”0  Father — if  you  let  me  call  you  so  — 

I never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 

Or  William,  or  this  child  ; but  now  I come 
For  Dora:  take  her  back;  she  loves  you 
well. 

0 Sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men  ; for  I ask’d  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me  — 

1 had  been  a patient  wife  : but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  crass  his  father  thus : 
‘God  bless  him  I’  he  said,  ‘and  may  he 

never  know 

The  troubles  I have  gone  thro’  I ’ Then  he 
turn’d 


His  face  and  pass’d  — unhappy  that  I am  ! 
But  now.  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to 
slight 

His  father’s  rnemory ; and  take  Dora  back. 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.” 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.  There  was  silence  in  the  room  ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs  : 
‘‘I  have  been  to  blame  — to  blame.  I 
have  kill’d  my  son. 

I have  kill’d  him  — but  I loved  him  — my 
dear  son. 

May  God  forgive  me  ! — I have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children.” 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man’s  neck,  and  kiss’d  him  many 
times. 

And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse  ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a hundred  fold  ; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb’d  o’er  William's 
child. 

Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 

Within  one  house  together ; and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate  ; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


AUDLEY  COURT. 

“The  Bull,  the  Fleece  are  cramm’d,  and 
not  a room 

For  love  or  money.  Let  us  picnic  there 
At  Audley  Court.” 

I spoke,  while  Audley  feast 
Humm’d  like  a hive  all  round  the  narrow 
quay. 

To  Francis,  with  a basket  on  his  arm, 

To  Francis  just  alighted  from  the  boat. 

And  breathing  of  the  sea.  “ With  all  my 
heart,” 

Said  Francis.  Then  we  shoulder’d  thro’  the 
swarm, 

And  rounded  by  the  stillness  of  the  beach 
To  where  the  bay  runs  up  its  latest  horn. 

We  left  the  dying  ebb  that  faintly  lipp’d 
The  flat  red  granite  ; so  by  many  a sweep 
Of  meadow  smooth  from  aftermath  we  reach’d 
The  griffin-guarded  gates,  and  pass’d  thro’ 
all 

The  pillar’d  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores, 

And  cross’d  the  garden  to  the  gardener’s^ 
lodge. 

With  all  its  casements  bedded,  and  its  walls 
And  chimneys  muffled  in  the  leafy  vine. 

There,  on  a slope  of  orchard,  Francis  laid 
A damask  napkin  wrought  with  horse  and 
hound. 

Brought  out  a dusky  loaf  that  smelt  of  home, 
And,  half-cut-down,  a pasty  costly  made, 
Where  quail  and  pigeon,  lark  and  leveret  lay, 
Like  fossils  of  the  rock,  with  golden  yolks 
Imbedded  and  injellied;  last,  with  these, 

A flask  of  cider  from  his  father’s  vats. 

Prime,  which  I knew ; and  so  we  sat  and  eat 
And  talk’d  old  matters  over : who  was  dead, 
Who  married,  who  was  like  to  be,  and  how 


46 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 


The  races  went,  and  who  would  rent  the  hall : 
Then  touch’d  upon  the  game,  how  scarce  it 
was 

This  season  ; glancing  thence,  discuss’d  the 
farm, 

The  fourfield  system,  and  the  price  of  grain  ; 
And  struck  upon  the  corn-laws,  where  we 
split, 

And  came  again  together  on  the  king 
With  heated  faces  ; till  he  laugh’d  aloud  ; 
And,  while  the  blackbird  on  the  pippin  hung 
To  hear  him,  clapt  his  hand  in  mine  and 
sang : 

“ O,  who  would  fight  and  march  and 
countermarch. 

Be  shot  for  sixpence  in  a battle-field, 

And  shovell’d  up  into  a bloody  trench 
Where  no  one  knows?  but  let  me  live  my 
life. 

“ O,  who  would  cast  and  balance  at  a desk, 
Perch’d  like  a crow  upon  a three-legg’d  stool, 
Till  all  his  juice  is  dried,  and  all  his  joints 
Are  full  of  chalk?  but  let  me  live  my  life. 

“ Who’d  serve  the  state?  for  if  I carved 
my  name 

Upon  the  cliffs  that  guard  my  native  land, 

I might  as  well  have  traced  it  in  the  sands  ; 
The  sea  wastes  all  ; but  let  me  live  my  life. 
“O,  who  would  love?  I woo’d  a woman 
once. 

But  she  was  sharper  than  an  eastern  wind. 
And  all  my  heart  turn’d  from  her,  as  a thorn 
Turns  from  the  sea : but  let  me  live  my 
life.”  ^ 

He  sang  his  song,  and  I replied  with  mine  : 
I found  it  in  a volume,  all  of  songs. 

Knock’d  down  to  me,  when  old  Sir  Robert’s 
pride. 

His  books  — the  more  the  pity,  so  I said  — 
Came  to  the  hammer  here  in  March  — and 
this  — 

I set  the  words,  and  added  names  I knew. 

“ Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  sleep,  and  dream 
of  me  : 

Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  thy  sister’s  arm. 

And  sleeping,  haply  dream  her  arm  is  mine. 

“ Sleep,  Ellen,  folded  in  Emilia’s  arm ; 
Emilia,  fairer  than  all  else  but  thou,  ^ 

For  thou  art  fairer  than  all  else  that  is. 

“ Sleep,  breathing  health  and  peace  upon 
her  breast : 

Sleep,  breathing  love  and  trust  against  her 
lip: 

I go  to-night : I come  to-morrow  morn. 

“ I go,  but  I return  ; I would  I were 
The  pilot  of  the  darkness  and  the  dream. 
Sleep,  Ellen  Aubrey,  love,  and  dream  of 
me.” 

So  sang  we  each  to  either,  Francis  Hale, 
The  farmer’s  son  who  lived  across  the  bay, 
My  friend  ; and  I,  that  having  wherewithal, 
And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life. 

Did  what  I would ; but  ere  the  night  we 
rose 

And  saunter’d  home  beneath  a moon,  that, 
just 

In  crescent,  dimly  rain’d  about  the  leaf 
Twilights  of  airy  silver,  till  we  reach’d 


The  limit  of  the  hills  ; and  as  we  sank 
From  rock  to  rock  upon  the  glooming  quay. 
The  town  was  hush’d  beneath  us;  lower 
down 

The  bay  was  oily-calm  ; the  harbor-buoy 
With  one  green  sparkle  ever  and  anon 
Dipt  by  itself,  and  we  were  glad  at  heart. 


WALKING  TO  THE  MAIL. 

John.  I ’m  glad  I walk’d.  How  fresh  the 
meadows  look 

Above  the  river,  and,  but  a month  ago, 

The  whole  hillside  was  redder  than  a fox. 

Is  yon  plantation  where  this  byway  joins 
The  turnpike  ? 

James.  Yes. 

John.  And  when  does  this  come  by  ? 
James.  The  mail?  At  one  o’clock. 
John.  What  is  it  now? 

James.  A quarter  to. 

John.  Whose  house  is  that  I see  ? 

No,  not  the  County  Member’s  with  the  vane  : 
Up  higher  with  the  yewtree  by  it,  and  half 
A score  of  gables. 

James.  That  ? Sir  Edward  Head’s  ; 
But  he ’s  abroad  : the  place  is  to  be  sold. 
John.  O,  his.  He  was  not  broken. 
James.  _ ^ _ No,  sir,  he. 

Vex’d  with  a morbid  devil  in  his  blood 
7'hat  veil’d  the  world  with  jaundice,  hid  his 
face 

From  all  men,  and  commercing  with  himself. 
He  lost  the  sense  that  handles  daily  life  — 
That  keeps  us  all  in  order  more  or  less  — 
And  sick  of  home  went  overseas  for  change. 
John.  And  whither  ? 

James.  Nay,  w’ho  knows?  he’s  here  and 
there. 

But  let  him  go  ; his  devil  goes  with  him. 

As  well  as  with  his  tenant,  Jocky  Dawes. 
John.  What ’s  that  ? 

James.  You  saw  the^man  — on  Monday, 
was  it  ? — 

There  by  the  humpback’d  willow ; half  stands 
up 

And  bristles;  half  has  fall’n  and  made  a 
bridge  ; 

And  there  he  caught  the  younker  tickling 
trout  — 

Caught  in  flagrante  — what’s  the  Latin 
word  ? — 

Delicto  : but  his  house,  for  so  they  say. 

Was  haunted  with  a jolly  ghost,  that  shook 
The  curtains,  whined  in  lobbies,  tapt  at 
doors. 

And  rummaged  like  a rat : no  servant  stay  d : 
The  farmer  vext  packs  up  his  beds  and 
chairs, 

And  all  his  household  stuff : and  with  his  boy 
Betwixt  his  knees,  his  wife  upon  the  tilt, 

Sets  out,  and  meets  a friend  who  hails  him, 
“ What ! 

You  ’re  flitting  ! ” “Yes,  we  ’re  flitting,”  says 
the  ghost, 

(For  they  had  pack’d  the  thing  among  the 
beds,) 


EDWIN 

“O  well,”  says  he,  “you  flitting  with  us 
too  — 

Jack,  turn  the  horses’  heads  and  home 
again.”  • 

John.  He  left  his  wife  behind  ; for  so  I 
heard. 

James.  He  left  her,  yes.  I met  my  lady 
once  : 

A woman  like  a butt,  and  harsh  as  crabs. 

John.  O yet  but  I remember,  ten  years 
back  — 

’T  is  now  at  least  ten  years  — and  then  she 
was  — 

You  could  not  light  upon  a sweeter  thing  : 

A body  slight  and  round,  and  like  a pear 
In  growing,  modest  eyes,  a hand,  a foot 
Lessening  in  perfect  cadence,  and  a skin 
As  clean  and  white  as  privet  when  it  flowers. 

James.  Ay,  ay,  the  blossom  fades,  and 
they  that  loved 

At  first  like  dove  and  dove  were  cat  and  dog. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a cottager. 

Out  of  her  sphere.  What  betwixt  shame  and 
pride. 

New  things  and  old,  himself  and  her,  she 
sour’d 

To  what  she  is  : a nature  never  kind  ! 

Like  men,  like  manners  : like  breeds  like, 
they  say. 

Kind  nature  is  the  best : those  manners  next 
That  fit  us  like  a nature  second-hand  ; 

Which  are  indeed  the  manners  of  the  great. 

John.  But  I had  heard  it  was  this  bill 
that  past, 

And  fear  of  change  at  home,  that  drove  him 
hence. 

James.  That  was  the  last  drop  in  his  cup 
of  gall. 

I once  was  near  him,  when  his  bailiff  brought 
A Chartist  pike.  You  should  have  seen  him 
wince 

As  from  a venomous  thing  : he  thought  him- 
self 

A mark  for  all,  and  shudder’d,  lest  a cry 
Should  break  his  sleep  by  night,  and  his  nice 
eyes 

Should  see  the  raw  mechanic’s  bloody  thumbs 
Sweat  on  his  blazon’d  chairs;  but,  sir,  you 
know 

That  these  two  parties  still  divide  the  wf»rld  — 
Of  those  that  want,  and  those  that  have  ; and 
still 

The  same  old  sore  breaks  out  from  age  to  age 
With  much  the  same  result.  Now  I myself, 
A Tory  to  the  quick,  was  as  a boy 
Destructive,  when  I had  not  what  I would. 

I was  at  school  — a college  in  the  South  : 
Tliere  lived  a flayflint  near ; we  stole  his  fruit, 
His  hens,  his  eggs ; but  there  was  law  for  us ; 
We  paid  in  person.  He  had  a sow,  sir.  She, 
With  meditative  grunts  of  much  content. 

Lay  great  with  pig,  wallowing  in  sun  and 
mud. 

By  night  we  dragg’d  her  to  the  college  tower 
From  her  warm  bed,  and  up  the  corkscrew 
stair 

With  hand  and  rope  we  haled  the  groaning 
sow. 


MORRIS.  47 

And  on  the  leads  we  kept  her  till  she  pigg’d. 
Large  range  of  prospect  had  the  mother  sow. 
And  but  for  daily  loss  of  one  she  loved, 

As  one  by  one  we  took  them  — ; but  for  this  — 
As  never  sow  was  higher  in  this  world  — 
Might  have  been  happy:  but  what  lot  is 
pure  ? 

We  took  them  all,  till  she  was  left  alone 
Upon  her  tower,  the  Niobe  of  swine. 

And  so  return’d  unfarrow’d  to  her  sty. 

John.  They  found  you  out? 

James.  Not  they. 

John.  Well  — after  all— 

What  know  we  of  the  secret  of  a man  ? 

His  nerves  were  wrong.  What  ails  us,  who 
are  sound. 

That  we  should  mimic  this  raw  fool  the 
world, 

Which  charts  us  all  in  its  coarse  blacks  or 
whites, 

As  ruthless  as  a baby  with  a worm. 

As  cruel  as  a schoolboy  ere  he  grow's 
To  Pity  — more  from  ignorance  than  will. 

But  put  your  best  foot  forward,  or  I fear 
That  we  shall  miss  the  mail  : and  here  it 
comes 

With  five  at  top  : as  quaint  a four-in-hand 
As  you  shall  see  — three  piebalds  and  a roan. 


EDWIN  MORRIS  ; OR,  THE  LAKE. 

O ME,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake. 
My  sweet,  wild,  fresh  three  quarters  of  a 
year. 

My  one  Oasis  in  the  dust  and  drouth 
Of  city  life  ; I was  a sketcher  then  : 

See  here,  my  doing : curves  of  mountain, 
bridge. 

Boat,  island,  ruins  of  a castle,  built 
When  men  knew  how  to  build,  upon  a rock, 
With  turrets  lichen-gilded  like  a rock  : 

And  here,  new-comers  in  an  ancient  hold. 
New-comers  from  the  Mersey,  millionnaires. 
Here  lived  the  Hills  — a Tudor-chimneyed 
bulk 

Of  mellow  brickwork  on  an  isle  of  bowers. 

O me,  my  pleasant  rambles  by  the  lake 
With  Edwin  Morris  and  with  Edward  Bull 
The  curate  ; he  was  fatter  than  his  cure. 

But  Edwin  Morris,  he  that  knew  the 
names. 

Long  learned  names  of  agaric,  moss,  and 
fern. 

Who  forged  a thousand  theories  of  the  rocks. 
Who  taught  me  how  to  skate,  to  row,  to  swim. 
Who  read  me  rhymes  elaborately  good. 

His  own  — I call’d  him  Crichton,  for  he 
seem’d 

All-perfect,  finish’d  to  the  finger  nail. 

And  once  I ask’d  him  of  his  early  life. 
And  his  first  passion  ; and  he  answer’d  me  ; 
And  well  his  words  became  him  : was  he  not 
A full-cell’d  honeycomb  of  eloquence 
Stored  from  all  flowers  ? Poet-like  he  spoke. 


48  EDWIN 

“ My  love  for  Nature  is  as  old  as  I ; 

But  thirty  moons,  one  honeymoon  to  that, 
And  three  rich  sennights  more,  my  love  for 
her. 

My  love  for  Nature  and  my  love  for  her. 

Of  different  ages,  like  twin-sisters  grew. 
Twin-sisters  differently  beautiful. 

To  some  full  music  rose  and  sank  the  sun. 
And  some  full  music  seem’d  to  move  and 
change 

With  all  the  varied  changes  of  the  dark. 

And  either  twilight  and  the  day  between  ; 

For  daily  hope  fulfill’d,  to  rise  again 
Revolving  toward  fulfilment,  made  it  sweet 
To  walk,  to  sit,  to  sleep,  to  breathe,  to  wake.” 

Or  this  or  something  like  to  this  he  spoke. 
Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 

“ I take  it,  God  made  the  woman  for  the 
man, 

And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world. 
A pretty  face  is  well,  and  this  is  well, 

To  have  a dame  indoors,  that  trims  us  up. 
And  keeps  us  tight ; but  these  unreal  ways 
Seem  but  the  theme  of  writers,  and  indeed 
Worn  threadbare.  Man  is  made  of  solid  stuff. 
T say,  God  made  the  woman  for  the  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world.” 

“Parson,”  said  I,  “you  pitch  the  pipe  too 
low  : 

But  I have  sudden  touches,  and  can  run 
My  faith  beyond  my  practice  into  his  : 

Tho’  if,  in  dancing  after  Letty  Hill, 

1 do  not  hear  the  Ijells  upon  my  cap, 

I scarce  hear  other  music  : yet  say  on. 

What  should  one  give  to  light  on  such  a 
dream  ? ” 

I ask’d  him  half-sardonically. 

“Give? 

Give  all  thou  art,”  he  answer’d,  and  a light 
Of  laughter  dimpled  in  his  swarthy  cheek  ; 

“ I would  have  hid  her  needle  in  my  heart. 
To  save  her  little  finger  from  a scratch 
No  deeper  than  the  skin  : my  ears  could  hear 
Her  lightest  breaths : her  least  remark  was 
worth 

The  experience  of  the  wise.  I went  and 
came ; 

Her  voice  fled  always  thro’  the  summer  land  ; 
I spoke  her  name  alone.  Thrice -happy  days  ! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when  we 
met. 

The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more.” 

Were  not  his  words  delicious,  I a beast 
To  take  them  as  I did  ? but  something  jarr’d  ; 
Whether  he  spoke  too  largely ; that  there 
seem’d 

A touch  of  something  false,  some  self-conceit. 
Or  over-smoothness  : howsoe’er  it  was, 

He  scarcely  hit  my  humor,  and  I said  : 

“Friend  Edwin,  do  not  think  yourself 
alone 

Of  all  men  happy.  Shall  not  Love  to  me. 
As  in  the  Latin  song  I learnt  at  school, 


MORRIS. 

Sneeze  out  a full  God-bless-you  right  ard 
left  ? 

But  you  can  talk  : yours  is  a kindly  vein  : 

I have,'*!  think,  — Heaven  knows  — as  much 
within  ; 

Have,  or  should  have,  but  for  a thought  or 
two. 

That  like  a purple  beech  among  the  greens 
Looks  out  of  place  : ’t  is  from  no  want  in  her  : 
It  is  my  shyness,  or  my  self-distrust. 

Or  something  of  a wayward  modern  mind 
Dissecting  passion.  Time  will  set  me  right.” 

So  spoke  I knowing  not  the  things  that 
were. 

Then  said  the  fat-faced  curate,  Edward  Bull : 
“ God  made  the  woman  for  the  use  of  man, 
And  for  the  good  and  increase  of  the  world.” 
And  I and  Edwin  laugh’d ; and  now  we 
paused 

About  the  windings  of  the  marge  to  hear 
The  soft  wind  blowing  over  meadowy  holn.s 
And  alders,  garden-isles;  and  now  we  left 
The  clerk  behind  us,  I and  he,  and  ran 
By  ripply  shallows  of  the  lisping  lake. 
Delighted  with  the  freshness  and  the  sound. 

But,  when  the  bracken  rusted  on  their 
crags. 

My  suit  had  wither’d,  nipt  to  death  by  him 
That  was  a God,  and  is  a lawyer’s  clerk. 

The  rentroll  Cupid  of  our  rainy  isles. 

’T  is  true,  we  met ; one  hour  I had,  no  more : 
She  sent  a note,  the  seal  an  Elle  votis  suit, 
The  close  “Your  Letty,  only  yours”;  and 
this 

Thrice  underscored.  The  friendly  mist  of 
morn 

Clung  to  the  lake.  I boated  over,  ran 
My  craft  aground,  and  heard  with  beating 
heart 

The  Sweet-Gale  rustle  round  the  shelving 
keel : 

And  out  I stept,  and  up  I crept ; she  moved. 
Like  Proserp'ine  in  Enna,  gathering  flowers  : 
Then  low  and  sweet  1 whistled  thrice  ; and 
she, 

She  turn’d,  we  closed,  we  kiss’d,  swore  faith, 
I breathed 

In  some  new  planet : a silent  cousin  stole 
Upon  us  and  departed  : “ Leave,”  she  cried, 

“ O leave  me  ! ” “ Never,  dearest,  never  ; 
here 

I brave  the  worst  ” : and  while  we  stood  like 
fools 

Embracing,  all  at  once  a score  of  pugs 
And  poodles  yell’d  within,  and  out  they 
came 

Trustees  and  Aunts  and  Uncles.  “ What, 
with  him  ! ” 

“ Go  ” (shrill’d  the  cottonspinning  chorus) 
“ him  ! ” 

I choked.  Again  they  shriek’d  the  burthen 
“ Him  ! ” 

Again  with  hands  of  wild  rejection  “ Go  ! — 
Girl,  get  you  in  ! ” She  went  — and  in  one 
month 

They  wedded  her  to  sixty  thousand  pounds, 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES.  49 


To  lands  in  Kent  and  messuages  in  York, 
And  slight  Sir  Robert  with  his  watery  smile 
And  educated  whisker.  But  for  me, 

They  set  an  ancient  creditor  to  work  : 

It  seems  I broke  a close  with  force  and  arms  : 
There  came  a mystic  token  from  the  king 
To  greet  the  sheriff,  needless  courtesy  ! 

I read,  and  fled  by  night,  and  flying  turn’d : 
Her  taper  glimmer’d  in  the  lake  below  : 

I turn’d  once  more,  close  button’d  to  the 
storm  ; 

So  left  the  place,  left  Edwin,  nor  have  seen 
Him  since,  nor  heard  of  her,  nor  cared  to 
hear. 

Nor  cared  to  hear?  perhaps  : yet  long  ago 
I have  pardon’d  little  Letty ; not  indeed. 

It  may  be,  for  her  own  dear  sake  but  this. 
She  seems  a part  of  those  fresh  days  to  me  ; 
For  in  the  dust  and  drouth  of  London  life 
She  moves  among  my  visions  of  the  lake. 
While  the  prime  swallow  dips  his  wing,  or 
then 

While  the  gold-lily  blows,  and  overhead 
The  light  cloud  smoulders  on  the  summer 
crag. 


ST.  SIMEON  STYLITES. 

Altho’  I be  the  basest  of  mankind, 

From  scalp  to  sole  one  slough  and  crust  of 
sin. 

Unfit  for  earth,  unfit  for  heaven,  scarce  meet 
For  troops  of  devils,  mad  with  blasphemy, 

I will  not  cease  to  grasp  the  hope  I hold 
Of  saintdom,  and  to  clamor,  mourn,  and  sob. 
Battering  the  gates  of  heaven  with  storms  of 
prayer. 

Have  mercy.  Lord,  and  take  away  my  sin. 

Let  this  avail,  just,  dreadful,  mighty  God, 
This  not  be  all  in  vain,  that  thrice  ten  years. 
Thrice  multiplied  by  superhuman  pangs. 

In  hungers  and  in  thirsts,  fevers  and  cold. 

In  coughs,  aches,  stitches,  ulcerous  throes 
and  cramps, 

A sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud. 
Patient  on  this  tall  pillar  I have  borne 
Rain,  wind,  frost,  heat,  hail,  damp,  and  sleet, 
and  snow ; 

And  I had  hoped  that  ere  this  period  closed 
Thou  wouldst  have  caught  me  up  into  thy 
rest, 

Denying  not  these  weather-beaten  limbs 
The  meed  of  saints,  the  white  robe  and  the 
palm. 

O take  the  meaning.  Lord : I do  not 
breathe. 

Not  whisper  any  murmur  of  complaint. 

Pain  heap’d  ten-hundred-fold  to  this,  were 
still 

Less  burthen,  by  ten-hundred-fold,  to  bear. 
Than  were  those  lead-like  tons  of  sin,  that 
crush’d 

My  spirit  flat  before  thee. 

O Lord,  Lord, 

Thou  knowest  I bore  this  better  at  the  first. 
For  I was  strong  and  hale  of  body  then  ; 
And  tho’  my  teeth,  which  now  are  dropt  away, 


Would  chatter  with  the  cold,  and  all  my 
beard 

Was  tagg’d  with  icy  fringes  in  the  moon, 

I drown’d  the  whoopings  of  the  owl  with 
sound 

Of  pious  hymns  and  psalms,  and  sometimes 
saw 

An  angel  stand  and  watch  me,  as  I sang. 
Now  am  I feeble  grown ; my  end  draws 
nigh  ; 

I hope  my  end  draws  nigh  : half  deaf  I am. 
So  that  I scarce  can  hear  the  people  hum 
About  the  column’s  base,  and  almost  blind. 
And  scarce  can  recognize  the  fields  I know ; 
And  both  my  thighs  are  rotted  with  the  dew; 
Yet  cease  I not  to  clamor  and  to  cry. 

While  my  stiff  spine  can  hold  my  weary  head, 
Till  all  my  limbs  drop  piecemeal  from  the 
stone. 

Have  mercy,  mercy  : take  away  my  sin. 

O Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul. 
Who  may  be  saved?  who  is  it  may  be  saved? 
Who  may  be  made  a saint,  if  I fail  here? 
Show  me  the  man  hath  suffer’d  more  than  I. 
For  did  not  all  thy  martyrs  die  one  death  ? 
For  either  they  were  stoned,  or  crucified. 

Or  burn’d  in  fire,  or  boil’d  in  oil,  or  sawn 
In  twain  beneath  the  ribs ; but  I die  here 
To-day,  and  whole  years  long,  a life  of  death. 
Bear  witness,  if  I could  have  found  a way 
(And  heedfully  I sifted  all  my  thought) 

More  slowly-painful  to  subdue  this  home 
Of  sin,  my  flesh,  which  I despise  and  hate, 

I had  not  stinted  practice,  O my  God. 

For  not  alone  this  pillar-punishment. 

Not  this  alone  I bore  : but  while  I lived 
In  the  white  convent  down  the  valley  there. 
For  many  weeks  about  my  loins  I wore 
The  rope  that  haled  the  buckets  from  the  well, 
Twisted  as  tight  as  I could  knot  the  noose  ; 
And  spake  not  of  it  to  a single  soul. 

Until  the  ulcer,  eating  thro’  my  skin. 
Betray’d  my  secret  penance,  so  that  all 
My  brethren  marvell’d  greatly.  More  than 
this 

I bore,  whereof,  O God,  thou  knowest  all. 
Three  winters,  that  my  soul  might  grow  to 
thee, 

T lived  up  there  on  yonder  mountain  side. 

My  right  leg  chain’d  into  the  crag,  I lay 
Pent  in  a roofless  close  of  ragged  stones  ; 
Inswathed  sometimes  in  wandering  mist, 
and  twice 

Black’d  with  thy  branding  thunder,  and 
sometimes 

Sucking  the  damps  for  drink,  and  eating  not, 
Except  the  spare  chance-gift  of  those  that 
came 

To  touch  my  body  and  be  heal’d,  and  live  : 
And  they  say  then  that  I work’d  miracles. 
Whereof  my  fame  is  loud  amongst  man- 
kind. 

Cured  lameness,  palsies,  cancers.  Thou,  O 
God, 

Knowest  alone  whether  this  was  or  no. 

Have  mercy,  mercjr ; cover  all  my  sin. 

Then,  that  I might  be  more  alone  with 
thee, 


50 


ST.  SIMEON  STVLITES. 


Three  years  I lived  upon  a pillar,  high 
Six  cubits,  and  three  years  on  one  of  twelve  ; 
And  twice  three  years  I crouch’d  on  one  that 
rose 

Twenty  by  measure  ; last  of  all,  I grew. 
Twice  ten  long  weary  weary  years  to  this, 
That  numbers  forty  cubits  from  the  soil. 

I think  that  I have  borne  as  much  as 
this  — 

Or  else  I dream  — and  for  so  long  a time. 

If  I may  measure  time  by  yon  slow  light. 
And  this  high  dial,  which  my  sorrow 
crowns  — 

So  much  — even  so. 

And  yet  I know  not  well. 
For  that  the  evil  ones  come  here,  and  say, 

“ Fall  down,  O Simeon  : thou  hast  suffer’d 
long 

For  ages  and  for  ages  ! ” then  they  prate 
Of  penances  I cannot  have  gone  thro’. 
Perplexing  me  with  lies  ; and  oft  I fall. 
Maybe  for  months,  in  such  blind  lethargies. 
That  Heaven,  and  Earth,  and  Time  are 
choked. 

But  yet 

Bethink  thee.  Lord,  while  thou  and  all  the 
saints 

Enjoy  themselves  in  heaven,  and  men  on 
earth 

House  in  the  shade  of  comfortable  roofs. 

Sit  with  their  wives  by  fires,  eat  wholesome 
food. 

And  wear  warm  clothes,  and  even  beasts 
have  stalls, 

I,  ’tween  the  spring  and  downfall  of  the  light. 
Bow  down  one  thousand  and  two  hundred 
times. 

To  Christ,  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the 
Saints ; 

Or  in  the  night,  after  a little  sleep, 

I wake  : the  chill  stars  sparkle  ; I am  wet 
With  drenching  dews,  or  stiff  with  crackling 
frost, 

I wear  an  undress’d  goatskin  on  my  back  ; 

A grazing  iron  collar  grinds  my  neck  ; 

And  in  my  weak,  lean  arms  I lift  the  cross, 
And  strive  and  wrestle  with  thee  till  I die  : 

0 mercy,  mercy  ! wash  away  my  sin. 

O Lord,  thou  knowest  what  a man  I am  ; 

A sinful  man,  conceived  and  born  in  sin  : 

’T  is  their  own  doing  ; this  is  none  of  mine  ; 
Lay  it  not  to  me.  Am  I to  blame  for  this. 
That  here  come  those  that  worship  me  ? Ha  ! 
ha  ! 

They  think  that  I am  somewhat.  What 
am  I? 

The  silly  people  take  me  for  a saint. 

And  bring  me  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers  : 
And  I,  in  truth  (thou  wilt  bear  witness  here) 
Have  all  in  all  endured  as  much,  and  more 
Than  many  just  and  holy  men,  whose  names 
Are  register’d  and  calendar’d  for  saints. 

Good  people,  you  do  ill  to  kneel  to  me. 
What  is  it  I can  have  done  to  merit  this  ! 

1 am  a sinner  viler  than  you  all. 

It  may  be  I have  wrought  some  miracles. 

And  cured  some  halt  and  maim’d  ; but  what 
of  that? 

1 


It  may  be,  no  one,  even  among  the  saints. 
May  match  his  pains  with  mine  ; but  what 
of  that  ? 

Yet  do  not  rise  : for  you  may  look  on  me. 
And  in  your  looking  you  may  kneel  to  God. 
Speak  ! is  there  any  of  you  halt  or  maim’d  ? 
I think  you  know  I have  some  power  with 
Heaven 

From  my  long  penance:  let  him  speak  his 
wish. 

Yes,  I can  heal  him.  Power  goes  forth 
from  me. 

They  say  that  they  are  heal’d.  Ah,  hark  ! 
they  shout 

“ St.  Simeon  Stylites.”  Why,  if  so, 

God  reaps  a harvest  in  me.  O my  soul, 

God  reaps  a harvest  in  thee.  If  this  be. 

Can  I work  miracles  and  not  be  saved  ? 

This  is  not  told  of  any.  They  were  saints. 

It  cannot  be  but  that  I shall  be  saved  ; 

Yea,  crown’d  a saint.  They  shout,  “Behold 
a saint ! ” 

And  lower  voices  saint  me  from  above. 
Courage,  St.  Simeon  ! This  dull  chrysalis 
Cracks  into  shining  wings,  and  hope  ere  death 
Spreads  more  and  more  and  more,  that  God 
hath  now 

Sponged  and  made  blank  of  crimeful  record 
all 

My  mortal  archives. 

O my  sons,  my  sons, 
I,  Simeon  of  the  pillar,  by  surname 
Stylites,  among  men  ; I,  Simeon, 

The  watcher  on  the  column  till  the  end  ; 

I,  Simeon,  whose  brain  the  sunshine  bakes  ; 
I,  whose  bald  brows  in  silent  hours  become 
Unnaturally  hoar  with  rime,  do  now 
From  my  high  nest  of  penance  here  proclaim 
That  Pontius  and  Iscariot  by  my  side 
Show’d  like  fair  seraphs.  On  the  coals  I 
lay, 

A vessel  full  of  sin  : all  hell  beneath 
Made  me  boil  over.  Devils  pluck’d  my 
sleeve ; 

Abaddon  and  Asmodeus  caught  at  me. 

I smote  them  with  the  cross  ; they  swarm’d 
again. 

In  bed  like  monstrous  apes  they  crush’d  my 
chest : 

They  flapp’d  my  light  out  as  I read  : I saw 
Their  faces  grow  between  me  and  my  book: 
With  colt-like  whinny  and  with  hoggish 
whine 

They  burst  my  prayer.  Yet  this  way  was 
left. 

And  by  this  way  I ’scaped  them.  Mortify 
Your  flesh,  like  me,  with  scourges  and  with 
thorns  ; 

Smite,  shrink  not,  spare  not.  Ifitmaybe, 
fast 

Whole  Lents,  and  pray.  I hardly,  with  slow 
steps, 

With  slow,  faint  steps,  and  much  exceeding 
pain. 

Have  scrambled  past  those  pits  of  fire,  that 
still  ^ 

Sing  in  jnine  ears.  But  yield  not  m.e  the 
praise : 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


51 


God  only  thro*  his  bounty  hath  thought  fit, 
Among  the  powers  and  princes  of  this  world, 
To  make  me  an  example  to  mankind, 

Which  few  can  reach  to.  Yet  I do  not  say 
But  that  a time  may  come  — yea,  even  now. 
Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  threshold 
stairs 

Of  life  — I say,  that  time  is  at  the  doors 
When  you  may  worship  me  without  reproach ; 
For  I will  leave  my  relics  in  your  land. 

And  you  may  carve  a shrine  about  my  dust, 
And  burn  a fragrant  lamp  before  my  bones. 
When  I am  gather’d  to  the  glorious  saints. 

While  I spake  then,  a sting  of  shrewdest  pain 
Ran  shrivelling  thro’  me,  and  a cloud-like 
change. 

In  passing,  with  a grosser  film  made  thick 
These  heavy,  horny  eyes.  The  end  ! the  end ! 
Surely  the  end!  What’s  here?  a shape,  a 
shade, 

A flash  of  light.  Is  that  the  angel  there 
That  holds  a crown  ? Come,  blessed  brother, 
come. 

I know  thy  glittering  face.  I waited  long  ; 
My  brows  are  ready.  What ! deny  it  now? 
Nay,  draw,  draw,  draw  nigh.  So  I clutch  it. 
Christ ! 

’T  is  gone  : ’t  is  here  again  : the  crown  ! the 
crown  I 

So  now ’t  is  fitted  on  and  grows  to  me. 

And  from  it  melt  the  dews  of  Paradise, 

Sweet  ! sweet  I spikenard,  and  balm,  and 
frankincense. 

Ah  ! let  me  not  be  fool’d,  sweet  saints  : I trust 
That  I am  whole,  and  clean,  and  meet  for 
Heaven. 

Speak,  if  there  be  a priest,  a man  of  God, 
Among  you  there,  and  let  him  presently 
Approach,  and  lean  a ladder  on  the  shaft, 
And  climbing  up  into  my  airy  home. 

Deliver  me  the  blessed  sacrament  ; 

For  by  the  warning  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

I prophesy  that  I shall  die  to-night, 

A quarter  before  twelve. 

But  thou,  O Lord, 

Aid  all  this  foolish  people  ; let  them  take 
Example,  pattern  ; lead  them  to  thy  light. 


And  with  a larger  faith  appeal’d 
Than  Papist  unto  Saint. 

For  oft  I talk’d  with  him  apart. 

And  told  him  of  fny  choice. 

Until  he  plagiarized  a heart, 

And  answer’d  with  a voice. 

Tho’  what  he  whisper’d,  under  Heaven 
None  else  could  understand  ; 

I found  him  garrulously  given, 

A babbler  in  the  land. 

But  since  I heard  him  make  reply 
Is  many  a weary  hour ; 

’T  were  well  to  question  him,  and  try 
If  yet  he  keeps  the  power. 

Hail,  hidden  to  the  knees  in  fern. 

Broad  Oak  of  Sumner-cUace, 

Whose  topmost  branches  can  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place  1 

Say  thou,  whereon  I carved  her  namet 
If  ever  maid  or  spouse. 

As  fair  as  my  Olivia,  came 

To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs.  — 

“ O Walter,  I have  shelter’d  here 
Whatever  maiden  grace 
The  good  old  Summers,  year  by  yea". 
Made  ripe  in  Sumner-chace  : 

“ Old  Summers,  when  the  monk  was 
And,  issuing  shorn  and  sleek. 

Would  twist  his  girdle  tight,  and  pat 
The  girls  upon  the  cheek, 

“ Ere  yet,  in  scorn  of  Peter’s-pence, 
And  number’d  bead  and  shrift. 

Bluff  Harry  broke  into  the  spence. 

And  turn’d  the  cowls  ad  iff  ; 

“ And  I have  seen  some  score  of  those 
Fresh  faces  that  would  thrive 
When  his  man-minded  offset  rose 
To  chase  the  deer  at  five  ; 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 

Once  more  the  gate  behind  me  falls  ; 
Once  more  before  my  face 

I see  the  moulder’d  Abbey-walls, 

That  stand  within  the  chace. 

Beyond  the  lodge  the  city  lies. 

Beneath  its  drift  of  smoke  ; 

And  ah  ! with  what  delighted  eyes 
I turn  to  yonder  oak. 

For  when  my  passion  first  began. 

Ere  that,  which  in  me  burn’d, 

The  love,  that  makes  me  thrice  a man. 
Could  hope  itself  return’d  ; 

To  yonder  oak  within  the  field 
I spoke  without  restraint. 


‘ And  all  that  from  the  town  would  stroll. 
Till  that  wild  wind  made  work 
In  which  the  gloomy  brewer’s  soul 
Went  by  me,  like  a stork  : 

“ The  slight  she-slips  of  loyal  blood. 

And  others,  passing  praise, 

Strait-laced,  but  all-too-full  in  bud 
For  puritanic  stays  ; 

**  And  I have  shadow’d  many  a group 
Of  beauties  that  were  born 
In  teacup-times  of  hood  and  hoop. 

Or  while  the  patch  was  worn  ; 

**  And,  leg  and  arm  with  love-knots  gay. 
About  me  leap’d  and  laugh’d 
The  modish  Cupid  of  the  day. 

Arid  shrill’d  his  tinsel  shaft. 


52 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


“ I swear  (and  else  may  insects  prick 
Each  leaf  into  a gall) 

This  girl,  for  whom  your  heart  is  sick. 

Is  three  times  worth  tl]em  all ; 

“ For  those  and  theirs,  by  Nature’s  law, 
Have  faded  long  ago  ; 

But  in  these  latter  springs  I saw 
Your  own  Olivia  blow, 

“ From  when  she  gamboll’d  on  the  greens, 
A baby-germ,  to  when 
The  maiden  blossoms  of  her  teens 
Could  number  five  from  ten. 

“ I swear,  by  leaf,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
(And  hear  me  with  thine  ears,) 

That,  tho’  I circle  in  the  grain 
Five  hundred  rings  of  years  — 

“ Yet,  since  I first  could  cast  a shade, 

Did  never  creature  pass 
So  slightly,  musically  made, 

Sp  light  upon  the  grass  : 

“ For  as  to  fairies,  that  will  flit 
To  make  the  greensward  fresh, 

I hold  them  exquisitely  knit. 

But  far  too  spare  of  flesh.” 

O,  hide  thy  knotted  knees  in  fern. 

And  overlook  the  chace  ; 

And  from  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place. 

But  thou,  whereon  I carved  her  name, 
That  oft  hast  heard  my  vows. 

Declare  when  last  Olivia  came 
To  sport  beneath  thy  boughs. 

“ O yesterday,  you  know,  the  fair 
Was  holden  at  the  town  : 

Her  father  left  his  good  arm-chair, 

And  rode  his  hunter  down. 

“ And  with  him  Albert  came  on  his, 

I look’d  at  him  with  joy ; 

As  cowslip  unto  oxlip  is. 

So  seems  she  to  the  boy. 

“An  hour  had  past  — and,  sitting  straight 
Within  the  low-wheel’d  chaise, 

Her  mother  trundled  to  the  gate 
Behind  the  dappled  grays. 

“ But,  as  for  her,  she  stay’d  at  home. 

And  on  the  roof  she  went. 

And  down  the  way  you  use  to  come 
She  look’d  with  discontent. 

“ She  left  the  novel  half-uncut 
Upon  the  rosewood  shelf ; 

She  left  the  new  piano  shut : 

She  could  not  please  herself. 

“ Then  ran  she,  gamesome  as  the  colt. 
And  livelier  than  a lark 


She  sent  her  voice  thro’  all  the  holt 
Before  her,  and  the  park. 

“ A light  wind  chased  her  on  the  wing. 

And  in  the  chase  grew  wild, 

As  close  as  might  be  would  he  cling 
About  the  darling  child  : 

“ But  light  as  any  wind  that  blows 
So  fleetly  did  she  stir, 

The  flower,  she  touch’d  on,  dipt  and  rose. 
And  turn’d  to  look  at  her. 

“ And  here  she  came,  and  round  me  play’cji 
And  sang  to  me  the  whole 
Of  those  three  stanzas  that  you  made 
About  my  ‘ giant  bole  ’ ; 

“ And  in  a fit  of  frolic  mirth 
She  strove  to  span  my  waist : 

Alas,  I was  so  broad  of  girth, 

1 could  not  be  embraced. 

“ I wish’d  myself  the  fair  young  beech 
That  here  beside  me  stands. 

That  round  me,  clasping  each  in  each. 

She  might  have  lock’d  her  hands. 

“ Yet  seem’d  the  pressure  thrice  as  sweet 
As  w^oodbine’s  fragile  hold. 

Or  when  I feel  about  my  feet 
The  berried  briony  fold.” 

O muffle  round  thy  knees  with  fern. 

And  shadow  Sumner-chace  ! 

Long  may  thy  topmost  branch  discern 
The  roofs  of  Sumner-place ! 

But  tell  me,  did  she  read  the  name 
I carved  with  many  vows 
When  last  wdth  throbbing  heart  I came 
To  rest  beneath  thy  boughs  ? 

“ O yes,  she  wander’d  round  and  round 
These  knotted  knees  of  mine. 

And  found,  and  kiss’d  the  name  she  found, 
And  sweetly  murmur’d  thine. 

“ A teardrop  trembled  from  its  source. 

And  down  my  surface  crept. 

My  sense  of  touch  is  something  coarse. 

But  I believe  she  wept. 

“ Then  flush’d  her  cheek  with  rosy  light, 
She  glanced  across  the  plain ; 

But  not  a creature  was  in  sight ; 

She  kiss’d  me  once  again. 

“ Her  kisses  were  so  close  and  kind. 

That,  trust  me  on  my  word. 

Hard  wood  I am,  and  wnnkled  rind. 

But  yet  my  sap  was  stirr’d  : 

“ And  even  into  my  inmost  ring 
A pleasure  I discern’d, 

Like  those  blind  motions  of  the  Spring, 
That  show  the  year  is  turn’d. 


THE  TALKING  OAK. 


“Thrice-happy  he  that  may  caress 
The  ringlet’s  waving  balm  — 

The  cushions  of  whose  touch  may  press 
The  maiden’s  tender  palm. 

“ I,  rooted  here  among  the  groves, 

But  languidly  adjust 
My  vapid  vegetable  loves 
With  anthers  and  with  dust : 

For  ah  ! my  friend,  the  days  were  brief 
Whereof  the  poets  talk, 

When  that,  which  breathes  within  the  leaf. 
Could  slip  its  bark  and  walk. 

“But  could  I,  as  in  times  foregone, 

From  spray,  andbraneh,  and  stem, 

Have  suck’d  and  gather’d  into  one 
The  life  that  spreads  in  them, 

“ She  had  not  found  me  so  remiss  ; 

But  lightly  issuing  thro’, 

I would  have  paid  her  kiss  for  kiss 
With  usury  thereto.” 

O flourish  high,  with  leafy  towers. 

And  overlook  the  lea. 

Pursue  thy  loves  among  the  bowers. 

But  leave  thou  mine  to  me. 

O flourish,  hidden  deep  in  fern, 

Old  oak,  I love  thee  well  ; 

A thousand  thanks  for  what  I learn 
And  what  remains  to  tell. 

“ ’T  is  little  more  ; the  day  was  warm ; 

At  last,  tired  out  with  play. 

She  sank  her  head  upon  her  arm. 

And  at  my  feet  she  lay. 

“ Her  eyelids  dropp’d  their  silken  eaves. 

I breathed  upon  her  eyes 
Thro’  all  the  summer  of  my  leaves 
A welcome  mix’d  with  sighs. 

“ I took  the  swarming  sound  of  life  — 

The  music  from  the  town  — 

The  murmurs  of  the  drum  and  fife 
And  lull’d  them  in  my  own. 

“ Sometimes  I let  a sunbeam  slip. 

To  light  her  shaded  eye  ; 

A second  flutter’d  round  her  lip 
Like  a golden  butterfly  ; 

**  A third  would  glimmer  on  her  neck 
To  make  the  necklace  shine  ; 

Ajiother  slid,  a sunny  fleck. 

From  head  to  ankle  fine. 

Then  close  and  dark  my  arms  I spread, 
And  shadow’d  all  her  rest  — 

Dropt  dews  upon  her  golden  head. 

An  acorn  in  her  breast. 

“ But  in  a pet  she  started  up. 

And  pluck’d  it  out,  and  drew 


S3 

My  little  oakling  from  the  cup, 

And  flung  him  in  the  dew. 

“ And  yet  it  was  a graceful  gift  — 

I felt  a pang  within 
As  when  I see  the  woodman  lift 
His  axe  to  slay  my  kin. 

“ I shook  him  down  because  he  was 
The  finest  on  the  tree. 

He  |ies  beside  thee  on  the  grass. 

O kiss  him  once  for  me. 

“ O kiss  him  twice  and  thrice  for  me. 

That  have  no  lips  to  kiss. 

For  never  yet  was  oak  on  lea 
Shall  grow  so  fair  as  this.” 

Step  deeper  yet  in  herb  and  fern. 

Look  further  thro’  the  chace. 

Spread  upward  till  thy  boughs  discern 
The  front  of  Sumner-place. 

This  fruit  of  thine  by  Love  is  blest. 

That  but  a moment  lay 
Where  fairer  fruit  of  Love  may  rest 
Some  happy  future  day. 

I kiss  it  twice,  I kiss  it  thrice. 

The  warmth  it  thence  shall  win 
To  riper  life  may  magnetize 
The  baby-oak  within. 

But  thou,  while  kingdoms  overset. 

Or  lapse  from  hand  to  hand. 

Thy  leaf  shall  never  fail,  nor  yet 
Thine  acorn  in  the  land. 

May  never  saw  dismember  thee, 

Nor  wielded  axe  disjoint. 

That  art  the  fairest-spoken  tree 
From  here  to  Lizard-point. 

O rock  upon  thy  towery  top 
All  throats  that  gurgle  sweet  1 
All  starry  culmination  drop 
Balm-dews  to  bathe  thy  feet  I 

All  grass  of  silky  feather  grow  — 

And  while  he  sinks  or  swells 
The  full  south-breeze  around  thee  blow 
The  sound  of  minster  bells. 

The  fat  earth  feed  thy  branchy  root, 

That  under  deeply  strikes  ! 

The  northern  morning  o’er  thee  shoot, 

High  up,  in  silver  spikes  ! 

Nor  ever  lightning  char  thy  grain. 

But,  rolling  as  in  sleep, 

Low  thunders  bring  the  mellow  rain. 

That  makes  thee  broad  and  deep  I 

And  hear  me  swear  a solemn  oath. 

That  only  by  thy  side 
Will  I to  Olive  plight  my  troth. 

And  gain  her  for  my  bride. 


54  LOVE  AND  DUTY, 


And  when  my  marriage  mom  may  fall, 
She,  Dryad-like,  shall  wear 

Alternate  leaf  and  acorn-ball 
In  wreath  about  her  hair. 

And  I will  work  in  prose  and  rhyme, 
And  praise  thee  more  in  both 

Than  bard  has  honor’d  beech  or  lime. 

Or  that  Thessalian  growth, 

In  which  the  swarthy  ringdoves  sat,  ^ 
And  mystic  sentence  spoke  ; 

And  more  than  England  honors  that. 
Thy  famous  brother-oak, 

Wherein  the  younger  Charles  abode 
Till  all  the  paths  were  dim. 

And  far  below  the  Roundhead  rode. 

And  humm’d  a surly  hymn. 


LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

Of  love  that  never  found  his  earthly  close. 
What  sequel  ? Streaming  eyes  and  breaking 
hearts  ? 

Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 

Not  so.  Shall  Error  in  the  round  of  time 
Still  father  Truth  ? O shall  the  braggart 
shout 

For  some  blind  glimpse  of  freedom  work 
itself 

Thro’  madness,  hated  by  the  wise,  to  law 
System  and  empire  ? Sin  itself  be  found 
The  cloudy  porch  oft  opening  on  the  Sun  ? 
And  only  he,  this  wonder,  dead,  become 
Mere  highway  dust  ! or  year  by  year  alone 
Sit  brooding  in  the  ruins  of  a life, 

Nightmare  of  youth,  the  spectre  of  himself? 

If  this  were  thus,  if  this,  indeed,  were  all. 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 

The  staring  eye  glazed  o’er  with  sapless  days. 
The  long  mechanic  pacings  to  and  fro. 

The  set  gray  life,  and  apathetic  end. 

But  am  I not  the  nobler  thro’  thy  love  ? 

O three  times  less  unworthy  ! likewise  thou 
Art  more  thro’  Love,  and  greater  than  thy 
years. 

The  Sun  will  run  his  orbit,  and  the  Moon 
Her  circle.  Wait,  and  Love  himself  will 
bring 

The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed 
to  fruit 

Of  wisdom.  Wait : my  faith  is  large  in 
Time, 

And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  en^. 

Will  some  one  say,  then  why  not  ill  for 
good  ? 

Why  took  ye  not  your  pastime?  To  that 
man 

My  work  shall  answer,  since  I knew  the  right 
And  did  it  ; for  a man  is  not  as  God, 

But  then  most  Godlike  being  most  a man. 

— So  let  me  think  ’t  is  well  for  thee  and 
me  — 

111  fated  that  I am,  what  lot  is  mine 
Whose  foresight  preaches  peace,  my  heart  so 
slow 


To  feel  it ! For  how  hard  it  seem’d  to  me. 
When  eyes,  love-languid  thro’  half-tears, 
would  dwell 

One  earnest,  earnest  moment  upon  mine. 
Then  not  to  dare  to  see  ! when  thy  low  voice. 
Faltering,  would  break  its  syllables,  to  keep 
My  own  full-tuned,  — hold  passion  in  a leash. 
And  not  leap  forth  and  fall  about  thy  neck. 
And  on  thy  bosom,  (deep-desired  relief !) 
Rain  out  the  heavy  mist  of  tears,  that  weigh’d 
Upon  my  brain,  my  senses,  and  my  soul  ! 
For  Love  himself  took  part  against  him- 
self 

To  warn  us  off,  and  Duty  loved  of  Love  — 
O this  world’s  curse,  — beloved  but  hated  — 
came 

Like  Death  betwixt  thy  dear  embrace  and 
mine. 

And  crying,  “Who  is  this?  behold  thy 
bride,’’ 

She  push’d  me  from  thee. 

If  the  sense  is  hard 

To  alien  ears,  I did  noGspeak  to  these  — 

No,  not  to  thee,  but  to  myself  in  thee : 

Hard  is  my  doom  and  thine  : thou  knowest 
it  all. 

Could  Love  part  thus  ? was  it  not  well  to 
speak. 

To  have  spoken  once  ? It  could  not  but  be 
well. 

The  slow  sweet  hours  that  bring  us  all  things 
good. 

The  slow  sad  hours  that  bring  us  all  things  ill, 
And  all  good  things  from  evil,  brought  the 
night 

In  which  we  sat  together  and  alone. 

And  to  the  want,  that  hollow’d  all  the  heart. 
Gave  utterance  by  the  yearning  of  an  eye, 
That  burn’d  upon  its  object  thro’  such  tears 
As  flow  but  once  a life. 

The  trance  gave  way 
To  those  caresses,  when  a hundred  times 
In  that  last  kiss,  which  never  was  the  last. 
Farewell,  like  endless  welcome,  lived  and 
died. 

Then  follow’d  counsel,  comfort,  and  the  words 
That  make  a man  feel  strong  in  speaking 
truth ; 

Till  now  the  dark  was  worn,  and  overhead 
The  lights  of  sunset  and  of  sunrise  mix’d 
In  that  brief  night ; the  summer  night,  that 
paused 

Among  her  stars  to  hear  us  ; stars  that  hung 
Love-charm’d  to  listen : all  the  wheels  of 
Time 

Spun  round  in  station,  but  the  end  had  come. 
O then  like  those,  who  clench  their  nerves 
to  rush 

Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose. 

There  — closing  like  an  individual  life  — 

In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 

Like  bitter  accusation  ev’n  to  death. 

Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  utter’d  it. 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 

Live — yet  live  — 
Shall  sharpest  pathos  blight  us,  knowing  all 
Life  needs  for  life  is  possible  to  will  — 

Live  happy  ; tend  thy  flowers  ; be  tended  by 


THE  GOLDEN  YEA  R.  — UL  YSSES,  55 


My  blessing  ! Should  my  Shadow  cross  thy 
thoughts 

Too  sadly  for  their  peace,  remand  it  thou 
For  calmer  hours  to  Memory’s  darkest  hold, 
If  not  to  be  forgotten  — not  at  once  — 

Not  all  forgotten.  Should  it  cross  thy 
dreams, 

O might  it  come  like  one  that  looks  content. 
With  quiet  eyes  unfaithful  to  the  truth. 

And  point  thee  forward  to  a distant  light, 

Or  seem  to  lift  a burthen  from  thy  heart 
And  leave  thee  freer,  till  thou  wake  refresh’d, 
Then  when  the  low  matin-chirp  hath  grown 
Full  choir,  and  morning  driv’n  her  plough  of 
pearl 

Far  furrowing  into  light  the  mounded  rack. 
Beyond  the  fair  green  field  and  eastern  sea. 


THE  GOLDEN  YEAR. 

Well,  you  shall  have  that  song  which  Leon- 
ard wrote  : 

It  was  last  summer  on  a tour  in  Wales : 

Old  James  was  with  me  : we  that  day  had 
been 

Up  Snowdon ; and  I wish’d  for  Leonard 
there. 

And  found  him  in  Llamberis  : then  we  crost 
Between  the  lakes,  and  clamber’d  half  way  up 
The  counter  side  ; and  that  same  song  of  his 
He  told  me  ; for  I banter’d  him,  and  swore 
They  said  he  lived  shut  up  within  himself, 

A tongue-tied  Poet  in  the  feverous  days. 
That,  setting  the  how  much  before  the  how^ 
Cry,  like  the  daughters  of  the  horse-leech, 
“ Give, 

Cram  us  with  all,”  but  count  not  me  the  herd ! 
To  which  “They  call  me  what  they  will,” 
he  said : 

“ But  I was  born  too  late  : the  fair  new  forms, 
That  float  about  the  threshold  of  an  age, 
Like  truths  of  Science  waiting  to  be  caught  — 
Catch  me  who  can,  and  make  the  catcher 
crown’d  — 

Are  taken  by  the  forelock.  Let  it  be. 

But  if  you  care  indeed  to  listen,  hear 
These  measured  words,  my  work  of  yester- 
morn. 

“We  sleep  and  wake  and  sleep,  but  all 
things  move : 

The  Sun  flies  forward  to  his  brother  Sun  ; 
The  dark  Earth  follows  wheel’d  in  her 
ellipse  ; 

And  human  things  returning  on  themselves 
Move  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 
“Ah,  tho’  the  times,  when  some  new 
thought  can  bud. 

Are  but  as  poets’  seasons  when  they  flower, 
Yet  seas,  that  daily  gain  upon  the  shore, 
Have  ebb  and  flow  conditioning  their  march. 
And  slow  and  sure  comes  up  the  golden  year. 
“ When  wealth  no  more  shall  rest  in 
mounded  heaps. 

But  smit  with  freer  light  shall  slowly  melt 
In  many  streams  to  fatten  lower  lands, 

And  light  shall  spread,  and  man  be  liker  man 
Thro’  all  the  season  of  the  golden  year. 


“ Shall  eagles  not  be  eagles  ? wrens  be 
wrens  ? 

If  all  the  world  were  falcons,  what  of  that? 
The  wonder  of  the  eagle  were  the  less. 

But  he  not  less  the  eagle.  Happy  days 
Roll  onward,  leading  up  the  golden  year. 

“ Fly  happy  happy  sails  and  bear  the 
Press ; 

Fly  happy  with  the  mission  of  the  Cross ; 
Knit  land  to  land,  and  blowing  havenward 
With  silks,  and  fruits,  and  spices,  clear  of 
toll, 

Enrich  the  markets  of  the  golden  year. 

“ But  w'e  grow  old.  Ah  ! when  shall  all 
men’s  good 

Be  each  man’s  rule,  and  universal  Peace 
Lie  like  a shaft  of  light  across  the  land. 

And  like  a lane  of  beams  athwart  the  sea. 
Thro’  all  the  circle  of  the  golden  year?  ” 
Thus  far  he  flowed,  and  ended ; whereupon 
“Ah,  folly!”  in  mimic  cadence  answer’d 
James  — 

“ Ah,  folly  ! for  it  lies  so  far  away, 

Not  in  our  time,  nor  in  our  children’s  time,  . 
’T  is  like  the  second  world  to  us  that  live  ; 

’T  were  all  as  one  to  fix  our  hopes  on  Heaven 
As  on  this  vision  of  the  golden  year.” 

With  that  he  struck  his  staff  against  the 
rocks 

And  broke  it,  — James,  — you  know  him,  — 
old,  but  full 

Of  force  and  choler,  and  firm  upon  his  feet, 
And  like  an  oaken  stock  in  winter  woods, 
O’erflourish’d  with  the  hoary  clematis : 

Then  added,  all  in  heat : 

“ What  stuff  is  this ! 
Old  writers  push’d  the  happy  season  back, — 
The  more  fools  they,  — we  forward ; dream- 
ers both  : 

You  most,  that  in  an  age,  when  every  hour 
Must  sweat  her  sixty  minutes  to  the  death, 
Live  on,  God  love  us,  as  if  the  seedsman, 
rapt 

Upon  the  teeming  harvest,  should  not  dip 
His  hand  into  the  bag : but  well  I know 
That  unto  him  who  works,  and  feels  he 
works. 

This  same  grand  year  is  ever  at  the  doors.” 
He  spoke ; and,  high  above,  I heard 
them  blast 

The  steep  slate-quarry,  and  the  great  echo 
flap 

And  buffet  round  the  hills  from  bluff  to  bluff. 


ULYSSES. 

It  little  profits  that  an  idle  king. 

By  this  still  hearth,  among  these  barren 
crags. 

Match’d  with  an  aged  wife,  I mete  and  dole 
Unequal  laws  unto  a savage  race, 

That  hoard,  and  sleep,  and  feed,  and  know 
not  me. 

I cannot  rest  from  travel ; I will  drink 
Life  to  the  lees  ; all  times  I have  enjoy’d 
Greatly,  have  suffer’d  greatly,  both  with 
those 


56  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


That  loved  me,  and  alone ; on  shore,  and 
when 

Thro’  scudding  drifts  the  rainy  Hyades 
Vext  the  dim  sea  : I am  become  a name ; 
For  always  roaming  with  a hungry  heart 
Much  have  I seen  and  known  ; cities  of  men 
And  manners,  climates,  councils,  govern- 
ments, 

Myself  not  least,  but  honor’d  of  them  all ; 
And  drunk  delight  of  battle  with  my  peers. 
Far  on  the  ringing  plains  of  windy  Troy. 

I am  a part  of  all  that  I have  met ; 

Yet  all  experience  is  an  arch  wherethro’ 
Gleams  that  untravell’d  world,  whose  margin 
fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I move. 

How  dull  it  is  to  pause,  to  make  an  end, 

To  rust  unburnish’d,  not  to  shine  in  use  ! 

As  tho’  to  breathe  were  life.  Life  piled  on 
life 

Were  all  too  little,  and  of  one  to  me 
Little  remains  : but  every  hour  is  saved 
From  that  eternal  silence,  something  more, 

A bringer  of  new  things ; and  vile  it  were 
For  some  three  suns  to  store  and  hoard  my- 
self. 

And  this  gray  spirit  yearning  in  desire 
To  follow  knowledge,  like  a sinking  star. 
Beyond  the  utmost  bound  of  human  thought. 

This  is  my  son,  mine  own  Telemachus, 

To  whom  I leave  the  sceptre  and  the  isle  — 
Well-loved  of  me,  discerning  to  fulfil 
This  labor,  by  slow  prudence  to  make  mild 
A rugged  people,  and  thro’  soft  degrees 
Subdue  them  to  the  useful  and  the  good. 
Most  blameless  is  he,  centred  in  the  sphere 
Of  common  duties,  decent  not  to  fail 
In  offices  of  tenderness,  and  pay 


Meet  adoration  to  my  household  gods,  - 
When  1 am  gone.  He  works  his  work,  I 
mine. 

There  lies  the  port:  the  vessel  puffs  her 
sail  : 

There  gloom  the  dark  broad  seas.  My  mar- 
iners. 

Souls  that  have  toil’d,  and  wrought,  and 
thought  with  me  — 

That  ever  with  a frolic  welcome  took 
The  thunder  and  the  sunshine,  and  opposed 
Free  hearts,  free  foreheads  — you  and  I are 
old; 

Old  age  hath  yet  his  honor  and  his  toil  ; 
Death  closes  all:  but  something  ere  the  end. 
Some  work  of  noble  note,  may  yet  be  done. 
Not  unbecoming  men  that  strove  with  Gods. 
The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  from  the  rocks  : 
The  long  day  wanes  : the  slow  moon  climbs ; 
the  deep 

Moans  round  with  many  voices.  Come,  my 
friends, 

’T  is  not  too  late  to  seek  a newer  world. 

Push  off,  and  sitting  well  in  order  smite 
The  sounding  furrows ; for  my  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset,  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I die. 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  : 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 
Tho’  much  is  taken,  much  abides  ; and  tho’ 
Weare  not  now  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven ; that  which  we 
are,  we  are  ; 

One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts. 

Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in 
will 

To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a little,  while  as  yet ’t  is  early  morn  ; 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon  the  bugle  horn. 

’T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  curlews  call. 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locksley  Hall  ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks  the  sandy  tracts. 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I went  to  rest. 

Did  I look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many  a night  I saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  thro’  the  mellow  shade. 
Glitter  like  a swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I wander’d,  nourishing  a youth  sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of  Time  ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a fruitful  land  reposed  ; 

When  I clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that  it  closed  : 

When  I dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could  see  ; 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be.  — 

In  the  Spring  a fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin’s  breast  ; 

In  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  himself  another  crest; 


Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush’d  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips.” 


'-  I:  •.....:  i-.^iVO  ‘u- 


• " ;,Ri! 

:\[ 

■ M-.: 

■■ . ' 


LOCKS  LEY  HALL. 

In  the  Spring  a livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish’d  dove  ; 

In  the  Spring  a young  man’s  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a mute  observance  hung. 

And  I said,  “ My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the  truth  to  me, 

Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to  thee.” 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  carne  a color  and  a light, 

As  I have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern  night. 

And  she  turn’d  — her  bosom  shaken  with  a sudden  storm  of  sighs  — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel  eyes  — 

Saying,  “ I have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should  do  me  wrong  ” ; 

Saying,  “ Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? ” weeping,  “ I have  loved  thee  long.” 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn’d  it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the  chords  with  might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling,  pass’d  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the  copses  ring. 

And  her  whisper  throng’d  my  pulses  with  the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships. 

And  our  spirits  rush’d  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips. 

O my  cousin,  shallow-hearted ! O my  Amy,  mine  no  more  ! 

O the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  ! O the  barren,  barren  shore  I 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs  have  sung. 

Puppet  to  a father’s  threat,  and  servile  to  a shrewish  tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known  me  — to  decline 
On  a range  of  lower  feelings  and  a narrower  heart  than  mine  I 

Yet  it  shall  be  : thou  shalt. lower  to  his  level  day  by  day. 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathize  with  clay. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  : thou  art  mated  with  a clown. 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent  its  novel  force. 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a little  dearer  than  his  horse. 

What  is  this?  his  eyes  are  heavy : think  not  they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him  : it  is  thy  duty  : kiss  him  : take  his  hand  in  thine. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  overwrought ; 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy  lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  understand  — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho’  I slew  thee  with  my  hand  I 

Better  thou  and  I were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart’s  disgrace, 

Roll’d  in  one  another’s  arms,  and  silent  in  a last  embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength  of  youth  I 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living  truth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from  honest  Nature’s  rule  ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten’d  forehead  of  the  fool  ! 

Well  — ’t  is  well  that  I should  bluster  ! — Hadst  thou  less  unworthy  proved  — 
Would  to  God  — for  I had  loved  thee  more  than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Am  I mad,  that  I should  cherish  that  which  bears  but  bitter  fruit? 

I I will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho’  my  heart  be  at  the  root. 

Never,  tho’  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years  should  come 
I As  the  many-winter’d  crow  that  leads  the  clanging  rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ? in  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind  ? 

Can  I part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  I knew  her,  kind  ? 

— '■  4 


58  LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

I remember  one  that  perish’d  : sweetly  did  she  speak  and  move  : 

Such  a one  do  1 remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to  love. 

Can  I think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love  she  bore? 

No  — she  never  loved  me  truly  : love  is  love  forevermore. 

Comfort?  comfort  scorn’d  of  devils  ! this  is  truth  the  p)oet  sings. 

That  a sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow  is  remembering  happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 

In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  when  the  rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Like  a dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring  at  the  wall, 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows  rise  and  fall. 

Then  a hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his  drunken  sleep. 

To  thy  widow’d  marriage  pillows,  to  the  tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  “ Never,  never,”  whisper’d  by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of  thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  : get  thee  to  thy  rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ; for  a tender  voice  will  cry. 

’T  is  a purer  life  than  thine  ; a lip  to  drain  thy  trouble  dry. 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  : my  latest  rival  brings  thee  rest. 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from  the  mother’"  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a dearness  not  his  due. 

Half  is  thine  and  half  is  his:  it  will  be  worthy  of  the  two. 

O,  I see  ■thee  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty  part. 

With  a little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a daughter’s  heart. 

“ They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings  — she  herself  was  not  exempt  — 
Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer’d” — Perish  in  thy  self-contempt  1 

Overlive  it  — lower  yet  — be  happy  ! wherefore  should  I care? 

I myself  must  mix  w'ith  action,  lest  I wfither  by  despair. 

What  is  that  which  I should  turn  to,  lighting  upon  days  like  these? 

Every  door  is  barr’d  with  gold,  and  opens  but  to  golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng’d  with  suitors,  all  the  markets  overflow. 

I have  but  an  angry  fancy  : what  is  that  which  I should  do  ? 

I had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman’s  ground. 

When  the  ranks  are  roll’d  in  vapor,  and  the  winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that  Honor  feels. 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at  each  other’s  heels. 

Can  I but  relive  in  sadness  ? I wall  turn  that  earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O thou  wondrous  Mother- Age  I 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I felt  before  the  strife, 

When  I heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of  my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming  years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father’s  field. 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer  drawn, 

. Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring  like  a dreary  dawn ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  wfithin  him  to  be  gone  before  him  then. 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among  the  throngs  of  men  ; 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever  reaping  something  new: 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things  that  they  shall  do : 

For  I dipt  info  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could  see, 

Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that  would  be ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic  sails. 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down  with  costly  bales  ; 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain’d  a ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations’  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central  blue  ; 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro’  the  thunder-storm  ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb’d  no  longer,  and  the  battle-flags  were  furl’d 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the  world. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal  law. 

So  I triumph’d,  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro’  me  left  me  dry. 

Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the  jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out  of  joint. 

Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from  point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a hungry  people,  as  a lion,  creeping  nigher. 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a slowly-dying  fire. 

Yet  I doubt  not  thro’  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs. 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen’d  with  the  process  of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his  youthful  joys, 

Tho’  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  forever  like  a boy’s. ^ 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I linger  on  the  shore. 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears  a laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of  his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the  bugle-hom, 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a target  for  their  scorn : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a moulder’d  string? 

I am  shamed  thro’  all  my  nature  to  have  loved  so  slight  a thing. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness  ! woman’s  pleasure,  woman’s  pain 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a shallower  brain  : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match’d  with  mine. 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto  wine  — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.  Ah,  for  some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began  to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild  Mahratta-battle  fell  my  father  evil-starr’d  ; — 

I was  left  a trampled  orphan,  and  a selfish  uncle’s  ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit  — there  to  wander  far  away, 

On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the  day. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots  of  Paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European  flag. 

Slides  the  bird  o’er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the  trailer  from  the  crag ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom ’d  bower,  hangs  the  heavy-fruited  tree  — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of  sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this  march  of  mind. 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp’d  no  longer  shall  have  scope  and  breathing-space; 
I will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my  dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew’d,  they  shall  dive,  and  they  shall  run. 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances  in  the  sun  ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot’s  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows  of  the  brooks. 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  miserable  books  — 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy  ! but  I knoiv  my  words  are  wild. 

But  I count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian  child. 


GOD  IV A. 


/,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious  gains, 

Like  a beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a beast  with  lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a squalid  savage  — what  to  me  were  sun  or  clime  ? 

I the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  — 

I that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by  one. 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua’s  moon  in  Ajalon  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward,  forward  let  us  range.  i 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the  ringing  grooves  of  change. 

Thro’  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day  : 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I knew  not)  help  me  as  when  life  begun  : 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings,  weigh  the  Sun  — 

O,  I see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 

Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro’  all  my  fancy  yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a long  farewell  to  Locksley  Hall ! 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  iiow  for  me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening  over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a thunderbolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire  or  snow  ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I go. 


GODIVA. 

I waited  for  the  train  at  Coventry  ; 

I hung  with  grooms  and  porters  on  the 
bridge^ 

To  watch  the  three  tall  spires  ; and  there  / 
shaped 

The  city's  ancient  legend  into  this  : — 

Not  only  we,  the  latest  seed  of  Time, 

New  men,  that  in  the  flying  of  a wheel 
Cry  down  the  past,  not  only  we,  that  prate 
Of  rights  and  wrongs,  have  loved  the  people 
well. 

And  loathed  to  see  them  overtax’d ; but  she 
Did  more,  and  underwent,  and  overcame. 
The  woman  of  a thousand  summers  back, 
Godiva,  wife  to  that  grim  Earl,  who  ruled 
In  Coventry : for  when  he  laid  a tax 
Upon  his  town,  and  all  the  mothers  brought 
Their  children,  clamoring,  “ If  we  pay,  we 
starve ! ” 

She  sought  her  lord,  and  found  him,  where 
he  strode 

About  the  hall,  among  his  dogs,  alone, 

His  beard  a foot  before  him,  and  his  hair 
A yard  behind.  She  told  him  of  their  tears. 
And  pray’d  him,  “ If  they  pay  this  tax,  they 
starve.” 

Whereat  he  stared,  replying,  half-amazed, 

“ You  would  not  let  your  little  finger  ache 
For  such  as  these  V' — “But  I would  die,” 
said  she. 

He  laugh’d,  and  sw'ore  by  Peter  and  by  Paul : 
Then  fillip’d  at  the  diamond  in  her  ear ; 

“O  ay,  ay,  ay,  you  talk  ! ” — “Alas!”  she 
said, 

“But  prove  me  what  it  is  I would  not  do.” 
And  from  a heart  as  rough  as  Esau’s  hand. 
He  answer’d,  “Ride  you  naked  thro’  the 
town, 


And  I repeal  it”  ; and  nodding,  as  in  scorn, 
He  parted,  with  great  strides  among  his  dogs. 

So  left  alone,  the  passions  of  her  mind, 

As  winds  from  all  the  compass  shift  and  blow, 
Made  war  upon  each  other  for  an  hour, 

Till  pity  won.  She  sent  a herald  forth, 

And  bade  him  cry,  with  sound  of  trumpet,  all 
The  hard  condition  ; but  that  she  would  loose 
The  people;  therefore,  as  they  loved  her 
well. 

From  then  till  noon  no  foot  should  pace  the 
street. 

No  eye  look  dowm,  she  passing ; but  that  all 
Should  keep  within,  door  shut,  and  window 
barr’d. 

Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower,  and 
there 

Unclasp’d  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt. 
The  grim  Earl’s  gift;  but  ever  at  a breath 
She  linger’d,  looking  like  a summer  moon 
Half-dipt  in  cloud  : anon  she  shook  her  head. 
And  shower’d  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her 
knee ; 

Unclad  herself  in  haste  ; adown  the  stair 
Stole  on  ; and,  like  a creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  until  she  reach’d 
The  gateway ; there  she  found  her  palfrey 
trapt 

In  purple  blazon’d  with  armorial  gold. 

Then  she  rode  forth,  clothed  on  with  chas- 
tity : 

The  deep  air  listen’d  round  her  as  she  rode. 
And  all  the  low  wind  hardly  breathed  for  tear. 
The  little  wide-mouth’d  heads  upon  the  spout 
Had  cunning  eyes  to  see  : the  barking  cur 
Made  her  cheek  flame  : her  palfrey’s  lootfall 
shot 

Light  horrors  thro’  her  pulses : the  blind 
walls 

Were  full  of  chinks  and  holes ; and  overhead 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


6i 


Fantastic  gables,  crowding,  stared:  but  she 
Not  less  thro’  all  bore  up,  till,  last,  she  saw 
The  white-flower’d  elder-thicket  from  the 
field 

Gleam  thro’  the  Gothic  archways  in  the  wall. 

Then  she  rode  back,  clothed  on  with  chas- 
tity : 

And  one  low  churl,  compact  of  thankless 
earth, 

The  fatal  byword  of  all  years  to  come, 
Boring  a little  auger-hole  in  fear, 

Peep’d  — but  his  eyes,  before  they  had  their 
will. 

Were  shrivell’d  into  darkness  in  his  head. 
And  drcpt  before  him.  So  the  Powers,  who 
wait 

On  noble  deeds,  cancell’d  a sense  misused  ; 
And  she,  that  knew  not,  pass’d : and  all  at 
once. 

With  twelve  great  shocks  of  sound,  the 
shameless  noon 

Was  clash’d  and  hammer’d  from  a hundred 
towers. 

One  after  one  : but  even  then  she  gain’d 
Her  bower ; whence  reissuing,  robed  and 
crown’d. 

To  meet  her  lord,  she  took  the  tax  away, 

And  built  herself  an  everlasting  name. 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 

A STILL  small  voice  spake  unto  me, 

“ Thou  art  so  full  of  misery, 

Were  it  not  better  not  to  be?  ” 

Then  to  the  still  small  voice  I said ; 

“ Let  me  not  cast  in  endless  shade 
What  is  so  wonderfully  made.” 

To  which  the  voice  did  urge  reply : 

“ To-day  I saw  the  dragon-fly 
Come  from  the  wells  where  he  did  lie. 

“ An  inner  impulse  rent  the  veil 
Of  his  old  husk  : from  head  to  tail 
Came  out  clear  plates  of  sapphire  mail. 

“ He  dried  his  wings  : like  gauze  they  grew  : 
Thro’  crofts  and  pastures  wet  with  dew 
A living  flash  of  light  he  flew.” 

I said,  “ When  first  the  world  began, 

Young  Nature  thro’  five  cycles  ran. 

And  in  the  sixth  she  moulded  man. 

“She  gave  him  mind,  the  lordliest 
Proportion,  and,  above  the  rest, 

Dominion  in  the  head  and  breast.” 

Thereto  the  silent  voice  replied  : 

“ Self-blinded  are  you  by  your  pride  : 

Look  up  thro’  night : the  world  is  wide. 

“ This  truth  within  thy  mind  rehearse, 

That  in  a boundless  universe 
Is  boundless  better,  boundless  worse. 


“ Think  you  this  mould  of  hopes  and  fears 
Could  find  no  statelier  than  his  peers 
In  yonder  hundred  million  spheres?” 

It  spake,  moreover,  in  my  mind  : 

“ Tho’  thou  wert  scatter’d  to  the  wind. 

Yet  is  there  plenty  of  the  kind. 

Then  did  my  response  clearer  fall : 

“ No  compound  of  this  earthly  ball 
Is  like  another,  all  in  all.” 

To  which  he  answer’d  scoffingly  : 

“ Good  soul ! suppose  I grant  it  thee, 

Who  ’ll  weep  for  thy  deficiency? 

“Or  will  one  beam  be  less  intense. 

When  thy  peculiar  difference 
Is  cancell’d  in  the  world  of  sense?  ” 

I would  have  said,  “ Thou  canst  not  know,” 
But  my  full  heart,  that  work’d  below, 

Rain’d  thro’  my  sight  its  overflow. 

Again  the  voice  spake  unto  me  : 

“Thou  art  so  steep’d  in  misery. 

Surely ’t  were  better  not  to  be. 

“Thine  anguish  will  not  let  thee  sleep, 

Nor  any  train  of  reason  keep  ; 

Thou  canst  not  think,  but  thou  wilt  weep.” 

I said,  “The  years  with  change  advance: 

If  I make  dark  my  countenance. 

I shut  my  life  from  happier  chance. 

“Some  turn  this  sickness  yet  might  take, 
Ev’n  yet.”  But  he  : “ What  drug  can  make 
A wither’d  palsy  cease  to  shake  ? ” 

I wept,  “ Tho’  I should  die,  I know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 
In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow; 

“ And  men,  thro’  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 

Will  learn  new  things  when  I am  not.” 

“ Yet,”  said  the  secret  voice,  “ some  time 
Sooner  or  later,  will  gray  prime 
Make  thy  grass  hoar  with  early  rime. 

“ Not  less  swift  souls  that  yearn  for  light. 
Rapt  after  heaven’s  starry  flight, 

Would  sweep  the  tracts  of  day  and  night. 

“ Not  less  the  bee  would  range  her  cells, 

The  furzy  prickle  fire  the  dells, 

The  foxglove  cluster  dappled  bells.” 

I said  that  “ all  the  years  invent  ; 

Each  month  is  various  to  present 
The  world  with  some  development. 

“ Were  this  not  well,  to  bide  mine  hour, 

Tho’  watching  from  a ruin’d  tower 
How  grows  the  day  of  human  power  ? ” 


62 


THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“ Waiting  to  strive  a happy  strife, 

To  war  with  falsehood  to  the  knife, 

And  not  to  lose  the  good  of  life  — 

“ Some  hidden  principle  to  move, 

To  put  together,  part  and  prove. 

And  mete  the  bounds  of  hate  and  love  — 

“ As  far  as  might  be,  to  carve  out 
Free  space  for  every  human  doubt. 

That  the  whole  mind  might  orb  about  — 

“To  search  thro’  all  I felt  or  saw, 

The  springs  of  life,  the  depths  of  a\re. 
And  reach  the  law  within  the  law : 

“ At  least,  not  rotting  like  a weed. 

But,  having  sown  some  generous  seed. 
Fruitful  of  further  thought  and  deed, 


“ The  highest-mounted  mind,”  he  said, 

“ Still  sees  the  sacred  morning  spread 
The  silent  summit  overhead. 

‘ Will  thirty  seasons  render  plain 
Those  lonely  lights  that  still  remain, 

Just  breaking  over  land  and  main  ? 

“ Or  make  that  morn,  from  his  cold  crown 
And  crystal  silence  creeping  down. 

Flood  with  full  daylight  glebe  and  town  ? 

“ Forerun  thy  peers,  thy  time,  and  let 
Thy  feet,  millenniums  hence,  be  set 
In  midst  of  knowledge,  dream’d  not  yet. 

“ Thou  hast  not  gained  a real  height, 

Nor  art  thou  nearer  to  the  light, 

Because  the  scale  is  infinite. 

“ ’T  were  better  not  to  breathe  or  speak. 
Than  cry  for  strength,  remaining  weak, 
And  seem  to  find,  but  still  to  seek. 

“ Moreover,  but  to  seem  to  find 

Asks  what  thou  lackest,  thought  resign’d, 

A healthy  frame,  a quiet  mind.” 

I said,  “ When  T am  gone  away, 

‘ He  dared  not  tarry,’  men  will  say. 

Doing  dishonor  to  my  clay.” 

“ This  is  more  vile,”  he  made  reply, 

“ To  breathe  and  loathe,  to  live  and  sigh. 
Than  once  from  dread  of  pain  to  die. 

“ Sick  art  thou  — a divided  will 
Still  heaping  on  the  fear  of  ill 
The  fear  of  men,  a coward  still. 

“ Do  men  love  thee  ? Art  thou  so  bound 
To  men,  that  how  thy  name  may  sound 
Will  vex  thee  lying  underground  } 

“ The  memory  of  the  wither’d  leaf 
In  endless  time  is  scarce  more  brief 
Than  of  the  garner’d  Autumn-sheaf. 

“ Go,  vexed  Spirit,  sleep  in  trust  ; 

The  right  ear.  that  is  fill’d  with  dust. 
Hears  little  of  the  false  or  just.” 

“ Hard  task,  to  pluck  resolve,”  I cried, 

“ From  emptiness  and  the  waste  wade 
Of  that  abyss,  or  scornful  pride  ! 

“ Nay  — rather  yet  that  I could  raise 
One  hope  that  warm’d  me  in  the  days 
While  still  I yearn’d  for  human  praise. 

“ When,  wide  in  soul  and  bold  of  tongue. 
Among  the  tents  I paused  and  sung. 

The  distant  battle  flash’d  and  rung. 

“ I sung  the  joyful  Paean  clear. 

And,  sitting,  burnish’d  without  fear 
The  brand,  the  buckler,  and  the  spear  — 


“ To  pass,  when  Life  her  light  withdraws, 
Not  void  of  righteous  self-applause. 

Nor  in  a merely  selfish  cause  — 


“ Whose  eyes  are  dim  with  glorious  teats, 
When,  soil’d  with  noble  dust,  he  hears 
His  country’s  war-song  thrill  his  ears  : 


“ Yea  ! ” said  the  voice,  “ thy  dream  was  good. 
While  thou  abodest  in  the  bud. 

It  was  the  stirring  of  the  blood. 

“If  Nature  put  not  forth  her  power 
About  the  opening  of  ♦^he  flower. 

Who  is  it  that  could  . /e  an  hour  ? 

“ Then  comes  the  check,  the  change,  the  fall. 
Pain  rises  up,  old  pleasures  pall. 

There  is  one  remedy  for  all. 

“ Yet  hadst  thou,  thro’  enduring  pain. 
Link’d  month  to  month  with  such  a chain 
Of  knitted  purport,  all  were  vain. 

“ Thou  hadst  not  between  death  and  birth 
Dissolved  the  riddle  of  the  earth. 

So  were  thy  labor  little-worth. 

“ That  men  with  knowledge  merely  play’d, 

I told  thee  — hardly  nigher  made, 

Tho’  scaling  slow  from  grade  to  grade  ; 

“ Much  less  this  dreamer,  deaf  and  blind. 
Named  man,  may  hope  some  truth  to  find. 
That  bears  relation  to  the  mind. 

“ For  every  worm  beneath  the  moon 
Draws  different  threads,  and  late  and  soon 
Spins,  toiling  out  his  own  cocoon. 


“ In  some  good  cause,  not  in  mine  owm. 
To  perish,  wept  for,  honor’d,  known. 
And  like  a warrior  overthrown  ; 


“ Then  dying  of  a mortal  stroke. 
What  time  the  foeman’s  line  is  broke, 
And  all  the  war  is  roll’d  in  smoke.” 


V 


THE  TWO  VOICES.  63 


Cry,  faint  not : either  Truth  is  born 
Beyond  the  polar  gleam  forlorn, 

Or  in  the  gateways  of  the  morn. 

“ Cry,  faint  not,  climb  : the  summits  slope 
Beyond  the  furthest  flights  of  hope, 

Wrapt  in  dense  cloud  from  base  to  cope. 

“ Sometimes  a little  coper  shines, 

As  over  rainy  mist  inclines 
A gleaming  crag  with  belts  of  pines. 

“ I will  go  forw'ard,  sayest  thou, 

I shall  not  fail  to  find  her  now. 

Look  up,  the  fold  is  on  her  brow. 

“ If  straight  thy  track,  or  if  oblique. 

Thou  know’st  not.  Shadows  thou  dost  strike, 
Embracing  cloud,  Ixion-like ; 

“ And  owning  but  a little  more 
Than  beasts,  abidest  lame  and  poor. 

Calling  thyself  a little  lower 

Than  angels.  Cease  to  wail  and  brawl ! 
Why  inch  by  inch  to  darkness  crawl? 

There  is  one  remedy  for  all.” 

“ O dull,  one-sided  voice,”  said  I, 

“ Wilt  thou  make  everything  a lie. 

To  flatter  me  that  I may  die  ? 

“ I know  that  age  to  age  succeeds. 

Blowing  a noise  of  tongues  and  deeds, 

A dust  of  systems  and  of  creeds. 

“ I cannot  hide  that  some  have  striven, 
Achieving  calm,  to  whom  was  given 
The  joy  that  mixes  man  with  Heaven  : 

“ Who,  rowing  hard  against  the  stream. 

Saw  distant  gates  of  Eden  gleam. 

And  did  not  dream  it  was  a dream ; 

“ But  heard,  by  secret  transport  led, 

Ev’n  in  the  charnels  of  the  dead, 

The  murmur  of  the  fountain-head  — 

“ Which  did  accomplish  their  desire. 

Bore  and  forbore,  and  did  not  tire, 

Like  Stephen,  an  unquenched  fire. 

“ He  heeded  not  reviling  tones. 

Nor  sold  his  heart  to  idle  moans, 

Tho’  cursed  and  scorn’d,  and  bruised  with 
stones : 

“ But  looking  upward,  full  of  grace. 

He  pray’d,  and  from  a happy  place 
God’s  glory  smote  him  on  the  face.” 

The  sullen  answer  slid  betwixt : 

“ Not  that  the  grounds  of  hope  were  fix’d. 
The  elements  were  kindlier  mix’d.” 

I said,  “ I toil  beneath  the  curse. 

But,  knowing  not  the  universe, 

I fear  to  slide  from  bad  to  worse. 


“ And  that,  in  seeking  to  undo 
One  riddle,  and  to  find  the  true, 

I knit  a hundred  others  new : 

“ Or  that  this  anguish  fleeting  hence. 
Unmanacled  from  bonds  of  sense. 

Be  fix’d  and  froz’n  to  permanence : 

“For  I go,  weak  from  suffering  here ; 
Naked  I go,  and  void  of  cheer : 

What  is  it  that  I may  not  fear?  ” 

“ Consider  well,”  the  voice  replied, 

“ His  face,  that  two  hours  since  hath  died  : 
Wilt  thou  find  passion,  pain,  or  pride? 

“ Will  he  obey  when  one  commands? 

Or  answer  should  one  press  his  hands? 

He  answers  not,  nor  understands. 

“His  palms  are  folded  on  his  breast : 

There  is  no  other  thing  express’d 
But  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest. 

“ His  lips  are  very  mild  and  meek  : 

Tho’  one  should  smite  him  on  the  cheek, 
And  on  the  mouth,  he  will  not  speak. 

“H  is  little  daughter,  whose  sweet  face 
He  kiss’d,  taking  his  last  embrace, 

Becomes  dishonor  to  her  race  — 

“ His  sons  grow  up  that  bear  his  name, 
Some  grow  to  honor,  some  to  shame,  — 

But  he  is  chill  to  praise  or  blame. 

“ He  win  not  hea*-  the  north-wi-^d  rave, 

Not,  moaning,  household  shelter  crave 
From  winter  rains  that  beat  his  grave. 

“ High  up  the  vapors  fold  and  swim : 

About  him  broods  the  twilight  dim  : 

The  place  he  knew  forgetteth  him.” 

“ If  all  be  dark,  vague  voice,”  I said, 

“ These  things  are  wrapt  in  doubt  and  dre^d, 
Nor  canst  thou  show  the  dead  are  dead. 

“ The  sap  dries  up : the  plant  declines. 

A deeper  tale  my  heart  divines. 

Know  I not  Death  ? the  outward  signs? 

“ I found  him  when  my  years  were  few  ; 

A shadow  on  the  graves  I knew. 

And  darkness  in  the  village  yew. 

“ From  ^ave  to  grave  the  shadow  crept : 

In  her  still  place  the  morning  wept : 
Touch’d  by  his  feet  the  daisy  slept. 

“ The  simple  senses  crown’d  his  head ; 

‘ Omega  ! thou  art  Lord,’  they  said, 

‘ We  find  no  motion  in  the  dead.’ 

“ Why,  if  man  rot  in  dreamless  ease. 

Should  that  plain  fact,  as  taught  by  these. 
Not  make  him  sure  that  he  shall  cease  ? 


I 


64  THE  TWO  VOICES. 


“ Who  forged  that  other  influence, 

That  heat  of  inward  evidence, 

By  which  he  doubts  against  the  sense  ? 

“ He  owns  the  fatal  gift  of  eyes, 

That  read  his  spirit  blindly  wise. 

Not  simple  as  a thing  that  dies. 

“ Here  sits  he  shaping  wings  to  fly  : 

His  heart  forebodes  a mystery: 

He  names  the  name  Eternity. 

“ That  type  of  Perfect  in  his  mind 
In  Nature  can  he  nowhere  find. 

He  sows  himself  on  every  wind. 

“ He  seems  to  hear  a Heavenly  Friend, 
And  thro’  thick  veils  to  apprehend 
A labor  working  to  an  end. 

“ The  end  and  the  beginning  vex 
His  reason  : many  things  perplex, 

With  motions,  checks,  and  counter-checks. 

“ He  knows  a baseness  in  his  blood 
At  such  strange  war  with  something  good. 
He  may  not  do  the  thing  he  would. 

“ Heaven  opens  inward,  chasms  yawn, 
Vast  images  in  glimmering  dawn. 
Half-shown,  are  broken  and  withdrawn. 

“ Ah  ! sure  within  him  and  without. 

Could  his  dark  wisdom  find  it  out. 

There  must  be  answer  to  his  doubt. 

“ But  thou  canst  answer  not  again. 

With  thine  own  weapon  art  thou  slain. 

Or  thou  wilt  answer  but  in  vain. 

“The  doubt  would  rest,  I dare  not  solve. 
In  the  same  circle  we  revolve. 

Assurance  only  breeds  resolve.” 

As  when  a billow,  blown  against, 

Falls  back,  the  voice  with  which  I fenced 
A little  ceased,  but  recommenced  : 

“ Where  wert  thou  when  thy  father  play’d 
In  his  free  field,  and  pastime  made, 

A merry  boy  in  sun  and  shade  ? 

“ A merry  boy  they  called  him  then. 

He  sat  upon  the  knees  of  men 
In  days  that  never  come  again. 

“ Before  the  little  ducts  began 
To  feed  thy  bones  with  lime,  and  ran 
Their  course,  till  thou  wert  also  man  : 

“ Who  took  a wife,  who  rear’d  his  race. 
Whose  wrinkles  gather’d  on  his  face. 
Whose  troubles  number  with  his  days  : 

“ A life  of  nothings,  nothing-worth. 

From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth  ! ” 


“These  words,”  I said,  “are  like  the  rest. 
No  certain  clearness,  but  at  best 
A vague  suspicion  of  the  breast : 

“ But  if  I grant,  thou  might’st  defend 
The  thesis  which  thy  words  intend  — 

That  to  begin  implies  to  end ; 

“ Yet  how  should  I for  certain  hold. 
Because  my  memory  is  so  cold, 

'Phat  I first  was  in  human  mould  ? 

“ I cannot  make  this  matter  plain. 

But  I would  shoot,  howe’er  in  vain, 

A random  arrow  from  the  brain. 

“ It  may  be  that  no  life  is  found. 

Which  only  to  one  engine  bound 
Falls  off,  but  cycles  always  round. 

“ As  old  mythologies  relate. 

Some  draught  of  Lethe  might  await 
The  slipping  thro’  from  state  to  state. 

“As  here  we  find  in  trances,  men 
Forget  the  dream  that  happens  then. 

Until  they  fall  in  trance  again. 

“ So  might  we,  if  our  state  were  such 
As  one  before,  remember  much. 

For  those  two  likes  might  meet  and  touch. 

“ But,  if  I lapsed  from  nobler  place, 

Some  legend  of  a fallen  race 
Alone  might  hint  of  my  disgrace ; 

“ Some  vague  emotion  of  delight 
In  gazing  up  an  Alpine  height. 

Some  yearning  toward  the  lamps  of  night. 

“ Or  if  thro’  lower  lives  I came  — 

Tho’  all  experience  past  became 
Consolidate  in  mind  and  frame  — 

“ I might  forget  my  weaker  lot ; 

For  is  not  our  first  year  forgot  ? 

The  haunts  of  memory  echo  not. 

“ And  men,  whose  reason  long  was  blind. 
From  cells  of  madness  unconfined, 

Oft  lose  whole  years  of  darker  mind. 

“ Much  more,  if  first  I floated  free. 

As  naked  essence,  must  I be 
Incompetent  of  memory  : 

“ For  memory  dealing  but  with  time. 

And  he  with  matter,  could  she  climb 
Beyond  her  own  material  prime? 

“ Moreover,  something  is  or  seems. 

That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams. 

Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 

“ Of  something  felt,  like  something  here  ; 
or  something  done,  I know  not  w'here  ; 
Such  as  no  language  may  declare.” 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


6S 


The  still  voice  laugh’d.  “I  talk,”  said  he, 

“ Not  with  thy  dreams.  Suffice  it  thee 
Thy  pain  is  a reality.” 

“ But  thou,”  said  I,  “hast  miss’d  thy  mark, 
Who  sought’st  to  wreck* my  mortal  ark. 

By  making  all  the  horizon  dark. 

“ Why  not  set  forth,  if  I should  do 
This  rashness,  that  which  might  ensue 
With  this  old  soul  in  organs  new  ? 

“ Whatever  crazy  sorrow  saith. 

No  life  that  breathes  with  human  breath 
Has  ever  truly  long’d  for  death. 

“ ’T  is  life,  whereof  our  nerves  are  scant, 

0 life,  not  death,  for  which  we  pant ; 

More  life,  and  fuller,  that  I want.” 

1 ceased,  and  sat  as  one  forlorn. 

Then  said  the  voice,  in  quiet  scorn  ; 

“ Behold,  it  is  the  Sabbath  morn.” 

And  I arose,  and  I released 
The  casement,  and  the  light  increased 
With  freshness  in  the  dawning  east. 

Like  soften’d  airs  that  blowing  steal. 

When  meres  begin  to  uncongeal. 

The  sweet  church  bells  began  to  peal. 

On  to  God’s  house  the  people  prest : 

Passing  the  place  where  each  must  rest. 

Each  enter’d  like  a welcome  guest. 

One  walk’d  between  his  wife  and  child. 

With  measur’d  footfall  firm  and  mild, 

And  now  and  then  he  gravely  smiled. 

The  prudent  partner  of  his  blood 
Lean’d  on  him,  faithful,  gentle,  good. 
Wearing  the  rose  of  womanhood. 

And  in  their  double  love  secure. 

The  little  maiden  walk’d  demure. 

Pacing  with  downward  eyelids  pure. 

These  three  rnade  unity  so  sweet. 

My  frozen  heart  began  to  beat, 

Remembering  its  ancient  heat. 

I blest  them,  and  they  wander’d  on  : 

I spoke,  but  answer  canpe  there  none  : 

The  dull  and  bitter  voice  was  gone. 

A second  voice  was  at  mine  ear, 

• A little  whisper  silver-clear, 

A murmur,  “ Be  of  better  cheer.” 

As  from  some  blissful  neighborhood, 

A notice  faintly  understood, 

“ I see  the  end,  and  know  the  good.” 

A little  hint  to  solace  w’oe, 

A hint,  a. whisper  breathing  low, 

“ I may  not  speak  of  what  I know.” 


Like  an  yEolian  harp  that  wakes 

No  certain  air,  but  overtakes 

Far  thought  with  music  that  it  makes  : 

Such  seem’d  the  whisper  at  my  side  : 

“ What  is  it  thou  knowest,  sweet  voice?”  I 
cried. 

“A  hidden  hope,”  the  voice  replied : 

So  heavenly-toned,  that  in  that  hour 
From  out  my  sullen  heart  a power 
Broke,  like  the  rainbow  from  the  shower, 

To  feel,  altho’  no  tongue  can  prove, 

That  every  cloud,  that  spreads  above 
And  veileth  love,  itself  is  love. 

And  forth  into  the  fields  I went. 

And  Nature’s  living  motion  lent 
The  pulse  of  hope  to  discontent. 

I wonder’d  at  the  bounteous  hours, 

The  slow  result  of  winter-showers  : 

You  scarce  could  see  the  grass  for  flowers. 

I wonder’d,  while  I paced  along: 

The  woods  were  fill’d  so  full  with  song, 
There  seem’d  no  room  for  sense  of  wrong. 

So  variously  seem’d  all  things  wrought, 

I marvell’d  how  the  mind  was  brought 
To  anchor  by  one  gloomy  thought ; 

And  wherefore  rather  I made  choice 
To  commune  with  that  barren  voice. 

Than  him  that  said,  “ Rejoice  ! rejoice  ! ” 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

PROLOGUE. 

O Lady  F lora,  let  me  speak  : 

A pleasant  hour  has  past  away 
While,  dreaming  on  your  damask  cheek. 
The  dewy  sister-eyelids  lay. 

As  by  the  lattice  you  reclined, 

I went  thro’  many  wayward  moods 
To  see  you  dreaming  — and,  behind, 

A summer  crisp  with  shining  woods. 
And  I too  dream’d,  until  at  last 
^ Across  my  fancy,  brooding  warm. 

The  reflex  of  a legend  past. 

And  loosely  settled  into  form. 

And  would  you  have  the  thought  I had, 

^ And  see  the  vision  that  I saw. 

Then  take  the  broidery-frame,  and  add 
A crimson  to  the  quaint  Macaw, 

And  I will  tell  it.  Turn  your  face. 

Nor  look  with  that  too-earnest  eye  — 
The  rhymes  are  dazzled  from  their  place. 
And  order’d  words  asunder  fly. 

THE  SLEEPING  PALACE. 


The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 
Clothes  and  reclothes  the  happy  plains  : 


66 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf, 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 
Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curl’d. 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come, 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 
To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 


2. 

Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 
On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn. 

The  fountain  to  his  place  returns. 
Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 
Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 
On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 
The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower. 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 


3- 

Roof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs: 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stay’d, 

The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 
Droop  sleepily  : no  sound  is  made. 

Not  even  of  a gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a picture  seemeth  all 
Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings. 

That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  w'all.- 

4- 

Here  sits  the  butler  with  a flask 

Between  his  knees  half-drain’d  ; and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task. 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair  : 

The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his  ; 

Her  lips  are  sever’d  as  to  speak  : 

His  own  are  pouted  to  a kiss  ; 

The  blush  is  fix’d  upon  her  cheek. 


Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams,  that  through  the  oriel  shine. 

Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass. 

And  beaker  brimm’d  with  noble  wine. 

Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps. 

Grave  faces  gather’d  in  a ring. 

His  state  the  king  reposing  keeps. 

He  must  have  been  a jovial  king. 

6. 

All  round  a hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 
At  distance  like  a little  wood  ; 

Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes. 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood  ; 

All  creeping  plants,  a wall  of  green 
Close-matted,  bur  and  brake  and  brier. 

And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen. 

High  up  the  topmost  palace-spire. 


7- 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die. 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again. 
And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh. 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men  ? 
Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  order’d,  ages  since. 

Come,  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 
And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 


Year  after  year  unto  her  feet. 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone. 

Across  the  purpled  coverlet, 

The  maiden’s  jet-black  hair  has  grown. 
On  either  side  her  tranced  form 

Forth  streaming  from  a braid  of  pearl : 
The  slumbrous  light  is  rich  and  warm. 
And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 


The  silk  star-broider’d  coverlid 
Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould 
Languidly  ever  ; and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets  downward  roll’d. 
Glows  forth  each  softly-shadowed  arm 
With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright : 
Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 


3- 

She  sleeps : her  breathings  are  not  heard 
In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 

The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirr’d 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 

She  sleeps  : on  either  hand  upswells 
The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prest : 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 
A perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

THE  ARRIVAL. 


All  precious  things,  discover’d  late. 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth; 
For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate. 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 
He  travels  far  from  other  skies  — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks  — 

A fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes. 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 
That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass. 

Are  wither’d  in  the  thorny  close. 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 

He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead 

“ They  perish’d  in  their  daring  deeds.” 
This  proverb  flashes  thro’  his  head, 

“ The  many  fail  : the  one  succeeds.” 

3- 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks  : 

He  breaks  the  hedge  : he  enters  there  ; 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks  : 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair; 

For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  w'ords  of  promise  in  his  walk. 

And  whisper’d  voices  at  his  ear. 


More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind  ; 
The  Magic  Music  in  his  heart 


T 

t 

/• 


How  say  you  ? we  have  slept,  my  lords. 
My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap.” 


4 


I 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 
The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 

His  spirit  flutters  like  a lark, 

He  stoops  — to  kiss  her  — on  his  knee. 
“Love,  if  thy  tresses  be  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be  ! ” 

THE  REVIVAL. 


A touch,  a kiss  ! the  charrn  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a noise  of  striking  clocks, 

And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

And  barking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks  ; 

A fuller  light  illumined  all, 

A breeze  thro’  all  the  garden  swept, 

A sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall, 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

2, 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawl  d. 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew. 

The  parrot  scream’d,  the  peacock  squall’d. 
The  maid  and  page  renew’d  their  strife, 

The  palace  bang’d,  and  buzz’d,  and  clackt, 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dash’d  downward  in  a cataract. 

3- 

And  last  with  these  the  king  awoke. 

And  in  his  chair  himself  uprear’d, 

And  yawn’d,  and  rubb’d  his  face,  and  spoke, 
“ By  holy  rood,  a royal  beard  ! 

How  say  you  ? we  have  slept,  my  lords. 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap.” 

The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

’T  was  but  an  after-dinner’s  nap. 

4- 

“Pardy,”  return’d  the  king,  “but  still 
My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 

My  lord,  fnd  shall  we  pass  the  bill 
I mention’d  half  an  hour  ago?  ” 

The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  return’d  reply  ; 

But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain. 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 


And  on  her  lover’s  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold. 

And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 

And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  follow’d  him. 

2. 

“ I ’d  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O love,  for  such  another  kiss”  ; 

“O  wake  forever,  love,”  she  hears, 

“ O love,  ’t  was  such  as  this  and  this.” 


61 

And  o’er  them  many  a sliding  star, 

And  many  a merry  wind  was  borne, 

And,  stream’d  thro’  many  a golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melteij  into  morn. 

3- 

“ O eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  ! ” 

“ O happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  ! ” 

“O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep  ! ” 

“ O love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead  ! 
And  o’er  them  many  a flowing  range 
Of  vapor  buoy’d  the  crescent-bark. 

And,  rapt  thro’  many  a rosy  change. 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

4- 

“A  hundred  summers  ! can  it  be  ? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where?” 
“O  seek  my  father’s  court  with  me. 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there.” 

And  o’er  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim. 

Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro’  all  the  world  she  follow’d  him. 

MORAL. 


So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there. 

Go,  look  in  any  glass  and  say. 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 

O,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put  _ 

The  wildweed-flower  that  simply  blows? 

And  is  there  any  moral  shut 
Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose? 

2. 

But  any  man  that  walks  the  mead. 

In  bud  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find. 

According  as  his  humors  lead, 

A meaning  suited  to  his  mind. 

And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like  Nature,  dearest  friend  ; 

So ’t  were  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 
Should  hook  it  to  some  useful  end. 

l’envoi. 


You  shake  your  head.  A random  string 
Your  finer  female  sense  offends. 

Well  — were  it  not  a pleasant  thing 
To  fall  asleep  with  all  one’s  friends ; 
To  pass  with  all  our  social  ties 
To  silence  from  the  paths  of  men ; 
And  every  hundred  years  to  rise 

And  learn  the  world,  and  sleep  again  ; 
To  sleep  thro’  terms  of  mighty  w'ars. 
And  wake  on  science  grown  to  more. 
On  secrets  of  the  brain,  the  stars. 

As  wild  as  aught  of  fairy  lore  ; 

And  all  that  else  the  years  will  show. 
The  Poet-forms  of  stronger  hours. 
The  vast  Republics  that  may  grow, 

The  Federations  and  the  Powers  ; 
Titanic  forces  taking  birth 

In  divers  seasons,  divers  climes ; 


AMPHION. 


68 

For  we  are  Ancients  of  the  earth, 

And  in  the  morning  of  the  times. 

2. 

So  sleeping,  so  arousecf  from  sleep 
Thro’  sunny  decades  new  and  strange, 

Or  gay  quinquenniads  would  we  reap 
The  flower  and  quintessence  of  change. 

3- 

Ah,  yet  would  I — and  would  I might  ! 

So  much  your  eyes  my  fancy  take  — 

Be  still  the  first  to  leap  to  light 
That  I might  kiss  those  eyes  awake  ! 

For,  am  I right  or  am  I wrong. 

To  choose  your  own  you  did  not  care  ; 

You ’d  have  my  moral  from  the  song. 

And  I will  take  my  pleasure  there : 

And,  am  I right  or  am  I wrong. 

My  fancy,  ranging  thro’  and  thro’, 

To  search  a meaning  for  the  song. 

Perforce  will  still  revert  to  you  ; 

Nor  finds  a closer  truth  than  this 
All-graceful  head,  so  richly  curl’d. 

And  evermore  a costly  kiss 

The  prelude  to  some  brighter  world. 

4* 

For  since  the  time  when  Adam  first 
Embraced  his  Eve  in  happy  hour, 

And  every  bird  of  Eden  burst 
In  carol,  every  bud  to  flower. 

What  eyes,  like  thine,  have  waken’d  hopes  ? 

What  lips,  like  thine,  so  sweetly  join’d  ? 
Where  on  the  double  rosebud  droops 
The  fulness  of  the  pensive  mind  ; 

Which  all  too  dearly  self-involved. 

Yet  sleeps  a dreamless  sleep  to  me  ; 

A sleep  by  kisses  undissolved. 

That  lets  thee  neither  hear  nor  see  : 

But  break  it.  In  the  name  of  wife. 

And  in  the  rights  that  name  may  give, 

Are  clasp’d  the  moral  of  thy  life. 

And  that  for  which  I care  to  live. 

EPILOGUE. 

So,  Lady  Flora,  take  my  lay. 

And,  if  you  find  a meaning  there, 

O whisper  to  your  glass,  and  sa5% 

“ What  wonder,  if  he  thinks  me  fair?” 
What  wonder  I was  all  unwise, 

To  shape  the  song  for  your  delight. 

Like  long-tail’d  birds  of  Paradise, 

That  float  thro’  Heaven,  and  cannot  light? 
Or  old-world  trains,  ui')held  at  court 
By  Cupid-boys  of  blooming  hue  — 

But  lake  it  — earnest  wed  with  sport, 

And  either  sacred  unto  you. 


AMPHION. 

My  father  left  a park  to  me, 
But  it  is  wild  and  barren, 

A garden  too  with  scarce  a tree 
And  waster  than  a warren  : 


Yet  say  the  neighbors  when  they  call, 

It  is  not  bad  but  good  land. 

And  in  it  is  the  germ  of  all 

That  grows  within  the  woodland. 

O had  I lived  when  song  was  great 
In  days  of  old  Amphion, 

And  ta’en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate. 

Nor  cared  for  seed  or  scion  ! 

And  had  I lived  when  song  was  great, 

And  legs  of  trees  were  limber. 

And  ta’en  my  fiddle  to  the  gate, 

And  fiddled  in  the  timber  ! 

’T  is  said  he  had  a tuneful  tongue, 

Such  happy  intonation. 

Wherever  he  sat  down  and  sung 
He  left  a small  plantation  ; 

Wherever  in  a lonely  grove 
He  set  up  his  forlorn  pipes. 

The  gouty  oak  began  to  move. 

And  flounder  into  hornpipes. 

The  mountain  stirr’d  its  bushy  crowm, 

And,  as  tradition  teaches. 

Young  ashes  pirouetted  down 
Coquetting  with  young  beeches  ; 

And  briony-vine  and  ivy-wTeath 
Ran  forward  to  his  rhyming. 

And  from  the  valleys  underneath 
Came  little  copses  climbing. 

The  birch-tree  swang  her  fragrant  hair. 

The  bramble  cast  her  berry. 

The  gin  within  the  juniper 
Began  to  make  him  merry. 

The  poplars,  in  long  order  due, 

With  cypress  promenaded. 

The  shock-head  willows  two  and  two 
By  rivers  gallopaded. 

Came  wet-shot  alder  from  the  wave. 

Came  yews,  a dismal  coterie  ; 

Each  pluck’d  his  one  foot  from  the  grave. 
Ponssetting  with  a sloe-tree  : 

Old  elms  came  breaking  from  the  vine. 

The  vine  stream’d  out  to  follow. 

And,  sweating  rosin,  plump’d  the  pine 
From  many^a  cloudy  hollow. 

And  was  n’t  it  a sight  to  see. 

When,  ere  his  song  was  ended, 

Like  some  great  landslip,  tree  by  tree. 

The  country-side  descended  ; 

And  shepherds  from  the  mountain-eaves 
Look’d  down,  half-pleased,  half-frighten’d. 
As  dash’d  about  the  drunken  leaves 
The  random  sunshine  lighten’d  ! 

O,  nature  first  w'as  fresh  to  men, 

And  wanton  without  measure  ; 

So  youthful  and  so  flexile  then, 

You  moved  her  at  your  pleasure. 

Twang  out,  my  fiddle!  shake  the  twigs  ! 

And  make  her  dance  attendance  ; 

Blow,  flute,  and  stir  the  stiff-set  sprigs. 

And  scirrhous  roots  and  tendons. 


ST.  AGNES.— SIR  GALAHAD.  69 


’T  is  vain  ! in  such  a brassy  age 
I could  not  move  a thistle  ; 

The  very  sparrows  in  the  hedge 
Scarce  answer  to  my  whistle  ; 

Or  at  the  most,  when  three-parts-sick 
With  strumming  and  with  scraping, 

A jackass  heeJiaws  from  the  rick, 

The  passive  oxen  gaping. 

But  what  is  that  I hear?  a sound 
Like  sleepy  counsel  pleading  \- 

0 Lord  ! — ’t  is  in  my  neighbor’s  ground. 
The  modern  Muses  reading. 

They  read  Botanic  Treatises, 

And  Works  on  Gardening  through  there. 

And  Methods  of  transplanting  trees. 

To  look  as  if  they  grew  there. 

The  wither’d  Misses  ! how  they  prose 
O’er  books  of  travell’d  seamen. 

And  show  you  slips  of  all  that  grows 
From  England  to  Van  Diemen. 

They  read  in  arbors  dipt  and  cut. 

And  alleys,  faded  places, 

By  squares  of  tropic  summer  shut 
And  warm’d  in  crystal  cases. 

But  these,  tho’  fed  with  careful  dirt, 

Are  neither  green  nor  sappy  ; 

Half-conscious  of  the  garden -squirt. 

The  spindlings  look  unhappy. 

Better  to  me  the  meanest  weed 
That  blows  upon  its  mountain, 

The  vilest  herb  that  runs  to  seed 
Beside  its  native  fountain. 

And  I must  work  thro’  months  of  toil. 

And  years  of  cultivation, 

Upon  my  proper  patch  of  soil 
To  grow  my  own  plantation. 

1 ’ll  take  the  showers  as  they  fall, 

I will  not  vex  my  bosom  : 

Enough  if  at  the  end  of  all 
A little  garden  blossom. 


ST.  AGNES. 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 

My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapor  goes : 
May  my  .soul  follow  soon  ! 

The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 
Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 

Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 
That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 

Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 
As  are  the  frosty  skies. 

Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  the  year 
That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soiled  and  dark. 
To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 

As  this  pale  taper’s  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 

So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee ; 


So  in  mine  earthly  house  I am. 

To  that  I hope  to  be. 

Break  up  the  heavens,  O Lord  ! and  far. 
Thro’  all  yon  starlight  keen, 

Draw  me,  thy  bride,  a glittering  star. 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors  ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 

All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors. 

And  strews  her  lights  below. 

And  deepens  on  and  up  ! the  gates 
Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits. 
To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 

The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide  — 

A light  upon  the  shining  sea  — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  I 


SIR  GALAHAD. 

My  good  blade  carves  the  casques  of  men. 
My  tough  lance  thrusteth  sure. 

My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 
Because  my  heart  is  pure. 

The  shattering  trumpet  shrilleth  high, 

The  hard  brands  shiver  on  the  steel, 

The  splinter’d  spear-shafts  crack  and  fly. 
The  horse  and  rider  reel : 

They  reel,  they  rod  in  clanging  lists. 

And  when  the  tide  of  combat  stands. 

Perfume  and  flowers  fall  in  showers. 

That  lightly  rain  from  ladies’  hands. 

How  sweet  are  looks  that  ladles  bend 
On  whom  their  favors  fall  ! 

For  them  I battle  to  the  end. 

To  save  from  shame  and  thrall  : 

But  all  my  heart  is  drawn  above, 

My  knees  are  bow’d  in  crypt  and  shrine  : 

I never  felt  the  kiss  of  love. 

Nor  maiden’s  hand  in  mine. 

More  bounteous  aspects  on  me  beam, 

Me  mightier  transports  move  and  thrill ; 

So  keep  1 fair  thro’  faith  and  prayer 
A virgin  heart  in  work  and  will. 

When  down  the  storm;y  crescent  goes, 

A light  before  me  swims. 

Between  dark  stems  the  forest  glows, 

I hear  a noise  of  hymns  : 

Then  by  some  secret  shrine  I ride  ; 

I hear  a voice,  but  none  are  there  : 

The  stalls  are  void,  the  doors  are  wide. 
The  tapers  burning  fair. 

Fair  gleams  the  snowy  altar-cloth, 

The  silver  vessels  sparkle  clean. 

The  shrill  bell  rings,  the  censer  swings, 
And  solemn  chants  resound  between. 

Sometimes  on  lonely  mountain-meres 
I find  a magic  bark  ; 

I leap  on  board  : no  helmsman  steers : 

I float  till  all  is  dark. 

A gentle  sound,  an  awful  light  ! 

•Three  angels  bear  the  holy  Grail : 


EDJVARD  GRAY,  — LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE. 


70 

With  folded  feet,  in  stoles  of  white, 

On  sleeping  wings  they  sail. 

Ah,  blessed  vision  ! blood  of  God  ! 

My  spirit  beats  her  mortal  bars, 

As  down  dark  tides  the  glory  slides, 

And  star-like  mingles  with  the  stars. 

When  on  my  goodly  charger  borne 
Thro’  dreaming  towns  I go. 

The  cock  crows  ere  die  Christmas  mom, 
The  streets  are  dumb  with  snow. 

The  tempest  crackles  on  the  leads. 

And,  ringing,  spins  from  brand  and  mail ; 

But  o’er  the  dark  a glory  spreads, 

And  gilds  the  driving  hail. 

I leave  the  plain,  I climb  the  height ; 

No  branchy  thicket  shelter  yields: 

But  blessed  forms  in  whistling  storms 
Fly  o’er  waste  fens  and  windy  fields. 

A maiden  knight  — to  me  is  given 
Such  hope,  I know  not  fear  ; 

I yearn  to  breathe  the  airs  of  heaven 
That  often  meet  me  here. 

I muse  on  joy  that  will  not  cease. 

Pure  spaces  clothed  in  living  beams, 

Pure  lilies  of  eternal  peace. 

Whose  odors  haunt  my  dreams; 

And,  stricken  by  an  angel’s  hand. 

This  mortal  armor  that  I wear, 

This  weight  and  size,  this  heart  and  eyes. 
Are  touch’d,  are  turn’d  to  finest  air. 

The  clouds  are  broken  in  the  sky. 

And  thro’  the  mountain-walls 

A -rolling  organ-harmony 

Swells  up,  and  shakes  and  falls. 

Then  move  the  trees,  the  copses  nod, 
Wings  flutter,  voices  hover  clear  : 

“ O just  and  faithful  knight  of  God  ! 

Ride  on  ! the  prize  is  near.” 

So  pass  I hostel,  hall,  and  grange ; 

By  bridge  and  ford,  by  park  and  pale, 

All-arm’d  I ride,  whate’er  betide, 

Until  I find  the  holy  Grail. 


EDWARD  GRAY. 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 
Met  me  walking  on  yonder  way, 

“ And  have  you  lost  your  heart?  ” she  said  : 
“ And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward  Gray?” 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me : 

Bitterly  w’eeping  I turn’d  away  : 

“ Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 

Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well. 

Against  her  father’s  and  mother’s  will ; 
To-day  I sat  for  an  hour  and  wept. 

By  Ellen’s  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

“ Shy  she  was,  and  I thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the  sea  ; 
Fill’d  I was  with  folly  and  spite. 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me.  , 


“ Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I said  ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day  : 

‘ You  ’re  too  slight  and  fickle,’  I said, 

‘ To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.* 

“ There  I put  my  face  in  the  grass  — 
Whisper’d,  ‘ Listen  to  my  despair  : 

I repent  me  of  all  I did : 

Speak  a little,  Ellen  Adair  ! ’ 

“ Then  I took  a pencil,  and  wrote 
On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I lay, 

‘ Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair; 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! * 

“ Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go. 

And  fly,  like  a bird,  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
But  I will  love  no  more,  no  more, 

Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

“ Bitterly  wept  I over  the  stone  : 

Bitterly  weeping  I turn’d  away  : 

There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ! 

And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray ! ” 


WILL  WATERPROOF’S  LYRICAL 
MONOLOGUE. 

MADE  AT  THE  COCK. 

0 PLUMP  head-waiter  at  The  Cock, 

To  which  I most  resort. 

How  goes  the  time  ? ’T  is  five  o’clock. 

Go  fetch  a pint  of  port : 

But  let  it  not  be  such  as  that 
You  set  before  chance  comers. 

But  such  whose  father-grape  grew  fat 
On  Lusitanian  summers. 

No  vain  libation  to  the  Muse, 

But  may  she  still  be  kind, 

And  whisper  lovely  words,  and  use 
Her  influence  on  the  mind. 

To  make  me  write  my  random  rhymes. 

Ere  they  be  half-forgotten  ; 

Nor  add  and  alter,  many  times. 

Till  all  be  ripe  and  rotten. 

1 pledge  her,  and  she  comes  and  dips 
Her  laurel  in  the  wine, 

And  lays  it  thrice  upon  my  lips. 

These  favor’d  lips  of  mine  ; 

Until  the  charm  have  power  to  make 
New  lifeblood  warm  the  bosom. 

And  barren  commonplaces  break 
In  full  and  kindly  blossom. 

I pledge  her  silent  at  the  board  ; 

Her  gradual  fingers  steal 

And  touch  upon  the  master-chord 
Of  all  I felt  and  feel. 

Old  wishes,  ghosts  of  broken  plans. 

And  phantom  hopes  assemble  ; 

And  that  child’s  heart  within  the  man’s 
Begins  to  move  and  tremble. 


LYRICAL  MONOLOGUE, 


71 


Thro’  many  an  hour  of  summer  suns 
By  many  pleasant  ways, 

Against  its  fountain  upward  runs 
The  current  of  my  days  : 

I kiss  the  lips  I once  have  kiss’d  ; 

The  gas-light  wavers  dimmer ; 

And  softly,  thro’  a vinous  mist, 

My  college  friendships  glimmer. 

I grow  in  worth,  and  wit,  and  sense, 
Unboding  critic-pen. 

Or  that  eternal  want  of  pence, 

Which  vexes  public  men. 

Who  hold  tlieir  hands  to  all,  and  cry 
For  that  which  all  deny  them,  — 

Who  sweep  the  crossings,  wet  or  dry. 
And  all  the  world  go  by  them. 

Ah  yet,  tho’  all  the  world  forsake, 

Tho’  fortune  clip  my  wings, 

I will  not  cramp  my  heart,  nor  take 
Half-views  of  men  and  things. 

Let  Whig  and  Tory  stir  their  blood  ; 

There  must  be  stormy  w'eather  ; 

But  for  some  true  result  of  good 
All  parties  work  together. 

Let  there  be  thistles,  there  are  grapes ; 

If  old  things,  there  are  new  ; 

Ten  thousand  broken  lights  and  shapes. 
Yet  glimpses  of  the  true. 

Let  raffs  be  rife  in  prose  and  rhyme. 

We  lack  not  rhymes  and  reasons. 

As  on  this  whirligig  of  Time 
We  circle  with  the  seasons. 

This  earth  is  rich  in  man  and  maid ; 

With  fair  horizons  bound  ! 

This  whole  wide  earth  of  light  and  shade 
Comes  out,  a perfect  round. 

High  over  roaring  Temple-bar, 

And,  set  in  Heaven’s  third  story, 

I look  at  all  things  as  they  are. 

But  thro’  a kind  of  glory. 

Head-waiter,  honor’d  by  the  guest 
Half-mused,  or  reeling-ripe. 

The  pint,  you  brought  me,  was  the  best 
That  ever  came  from  pipe. 

But  tho’  the  port  surpasses  praise, 

My  nerves  have  dealt  with  stiffen 
Is  there  some  magic  in  the  place  ? 

Or  do  my  peptics  differ  ? 

For  since  I came  to  live  and  learn. 

No  pint  of  white  or  red 
Had  ever  half  the  power  to  turn 
This  wheel  within  my  head. 

Which  bears  a season’d  brain  about. 
Unsubject  to  confusion, 

Tho’  soak’d  and  saturate,  out  and  out. 
Thro’  every  convolution. 

For  I am  of  a numerous  house, 

With  many  kinsmen  gay. 

Where  long  and  largely  we  carouse. 

As  who  shall  say  me  nay  : 


Each  month,  a birthday  coming  on. 

We  drink  defying  trouble. 

Or  sometimes  two  would  meet  in  one, 

And  then  we  drank  it  double  ; 

Whether  the  vintage,  yet  unkept. 

Had  relish  fiery-new. 

Or,  elbow-deep  in  saw'dust,  slept. 

As  old  as  Waterloo  ; 

Or  stow’d  (w'hen  classic  Canning  died) 

In  musty  bins  and  chambers. 

Had  cast  upon  its  crusty  side 
The  gloom  of  ten  Decembers. 

The  Muse,  the  jolly  Muse,  it  is  ! 

She  answer’d  to  my  call. 

She  changes  with  that  mood  or  this. 

Is  all-in-all  to  all : 

She  lit  the  spark  within  my  throat. 

To  make  my  blood  run  quicker, 

Used  all  her  fiery  will,  and  smote 
Her  life  into  the  liquor. 

And  hence  this  halo  lives  about 
The  waiter’s  hands,  that  reach 
To  each  his  perfect  pint  of  stout. 

His  proper  chop  to  each. 

He  looks  not  like  the  common  breed 
That  with  the  napkin  dally  ; 

I think  he  came  like  Ganymede, 

F rom  some  delightful  valley. 

The  Cock  w^as  of  a larger  egg 
Than  modern  poultry  drop, 

Stept  forward  on  a firmer  leg, 

And  cramm’d  a plumper  crop  ; 

Upon  an  ampler  dunghill  trod, 

Crow’d  lustier  late  and  early, 

Sipt  wine  frorn  silver,  praising  God, 

And  raked  in  golden  barley. 

A private  life  w^as  all  his  joy. 

Till  in  a court  he  saw 
A something-pottle-bodied  boy. 

That  knuckled  at  the  taw  : 

He  stoop’d  and  clutch’d  him,  fair  and  good, 
Flew  over  roof  and  casement : 

His  brothers  of  the  weather  stood 
Stock-still  for  sheer  amazement. 

But  he,  by  farmstead,  thorpe,  and  spire, 
And  follow’d  with  acclaims, 

A sign  to  many  a staring  shire. 

Came  crowing  over  Thames. 

Right  down  by  smoky  Paul’s  they  bore. 
Till,  where  the  street  grows  straiter. 

One  fix’d  forever  at  the  door. 

And  one  became  head-waiter. 

But  whither  would  my  fancy  go  ? 

How  out  of  place  she  makes 
The  violet  of  a legend  blow 
Among  the  chops  and  steaks  ! 

’T  is  but  a steward  of  the  can. 

One  shade  more  plump  than  common  ; 

As  just  and  mere  a serving-man 
As  any,  born  of  woman. 


TO 


72 

I ranged  too  high  : what  draws  me  down 
Into  the  common  day? 

Is  it  the  weight  of  that  half-crown, 

Which  I shall  have  to  pay  ? 

For,  something  duller  than  at  first, 

Nor  wholly  comfortable, 

I sit  (my  empty  glass  reversed), 

And  thrumming  on  the  table  : 

Half  fearful  that,  with  self  at  strife, 

I take  myself  to  task  ; 

Lest  of  the  fulness  of  my  life 
I leave  an  empty  flask  : 

For  I had  hope,  by  something  rare. 

To  prove  myself  a poet  ; 

But,  while  I plan  and  plan,  my  hair 
Is  gray  before  I know  it. 

So  fares  it  since  the  years  began. 

Till  they  be  gather’d  up  ; 

The  truth,  that  flies  the  flowing  can. 

Will  haunt  the  vacant  cup  : 

And  others’  follies  teach  us  not. 

Nor  much  their  wisdom  teaches ; 

And  most,  of  sterling  worth,  is  what 
Our  own  experience  preaches. 

Ah,  let  the  rusty  theme  alone  ! 

We  know  not  what  we  know. 

But  for  my  pleasant  hour,  ’t  is  gone, 

’T  is  gone,  and  let  it  go. 

’T  is  gone  : a thousand  such  have  slipt 
Away  from  my  embraces, 

And  fall’n  into  the  dusty  crypt 
Of  darken’d  forms  and  faces. 

Go,  therefore,  thou  ! thy  betters  v/ent 
Long  since,  and  came  no  more  : 

With  peals  of  genial  clamor  sent 
From  many  a tavern-door. 

With  twisted  quirks  and  happy  hits, 

From  misty  men  of  letters  ; 

The  tavern-hours  of  mighty  wits,  — 
Thine  elders  and  thy  betters. 

Hours,  when  the  Poet’s  words  and  looks 
Had  yet  their  native  glow  : 

Not  yet  the  fear  of  little  books 
Had  made  him  talk  for  show  ; 

But,  all  his  vast  heart  sherris-warm’d, 

He  flash’d  his  random  speeches  ; 

Ere  days,  that  deal  in  ana,  swarm’d 
His  literary  leeches. 

So  mix  forever  with  the  past. 

Like  all  good  things  on  earth  ! 

For  should  I prize  thee,  couldst  thou  last. 
At  half  thy  real  worth  ? 

I hold  it  good,  good  things  should  pass  : 
With  time  I will  not  quarrel  : 

It  is  but  yonder  empty  glass 
That  makes  me  maudlin-moral. 


Head-waiter  of  the  chop-house  here. 
To  which  I most  resort, 

I too  must  part : I hold  thee  dear 
For  this  good  pint  of  port. 


For  this,  thou  shalt  from  .ail  things  suck 
Marrow  of  mirth  and  laughter  ; 

And,  wheresoe’er  thou  move,  good  luck 
Shall  fling  her  old  shoe  after. 

But  thou  wilt  never  move  from  hence. 

The  sphere  thy  fate  allots  : 

Thy  latter  days  increased  with  pence 
Go  down  among  the  pots  : 

Thou  battenest  by  the  greasy  gleam 
In  haunts  of  hungry  sinners. 

Old  boxes,  larded  with  the  steam 
Of  thirty  thousand  dinners. 

We  fret,  we  fume,  would  shift  our  skins, 
Would  quarrel  with  our  lot : 

Thy  care  is,  under  polish’d  tins. 

To  serve  the  hot-and-hot ; 

To  come  and  go,  and  come  again. 
Returning  like  the  pewit. 

And  watch’d  by  silent  gentlemen. 

That  trifle  with  the  cruet. 

Live  long,  ere  from  thy  topmost  head 
The  thick-set  hazel  dies  ; 

Long,  ere  the  hateful  crow  shall  tread 
The  corners  of  thine  eyes  : 

Live  long,  nor  feel  in  head  or  chest 
Our  changeful  equinoxes. 

Till  mellow  Death,  like  some  late  guest. 
Shall  call  thee  from  the  boxes. 

But  when  he  calls,  and  thou  shalt  cease 
To  pace  the  gritted  floor. 

And,  laying  down  an  unctuous  lease 
Of  life,  shall  earn  no  more  : 

No  carved  cross-bones,  the  types  of  Death, 
Shall  show  thee  past  to  Heaven  ; 

But  carved  cross-pipes,  and,  underneath, 

A pint-pot,  neatly  graven. 


TO  , 

AFTER  READING  A LIFE  AND  LETTERS. 

“ Cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones.” 

^ Shakespeare' s Epitaph, 

You  might  have  won  the  Poet’s  name. 

If  such  be  worth  the  winning  now. 

And  gain’d  a laurel  for  your  brow 
Of  sounder  leaf  than  I can  claim  ; 

But  you  have  made  the  wiser  choice, 

A life  that  moves  to  gracious  ends 
Thro’  troops  of  unrecording  friends, 

A deedful  life,  a silent  voice  : 

And  you  have  miss’d  the  irreverent  doom 
Of  those  that  wear  the  Poet’s  crown  : 
Hereafter,  neither  knave  nor  clown 
Shall  hold  their  orgies  at  your  tomb. 

For  now  the  Poet  cannot  die 
Nor  leave  his  music  as  of  old, 

But  round  him  ere  he  scarce  be  cold 
Begins  the  scandal  and  the  cry : 


TO  E.  L.  — LADY  CL  A EE.  73 


“Proclaim  the  faults  he  would  not  show  : 
Break  lock  and  seal  : betray  the  trust : 
Keep  nothing  sacred  : ’tis  but  just 
The  many-headed  beast  should  know.” 

Ah  shameless  ! for  he  did  but  sing 

A song  that  pleased  us  from  its  worth ; 

No  public  life  was  his  on  earth, 

No  blazon’d  statesman  he,  nor  king. 

He  gave  the  people  of  his  best : 

His  worst  he  kept,  his  best  he  gave. 

My  Shakespeare’s  curse  on  clown  and 
knave 

Who  will  not  let  his  ashes  rest  ! 

Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  of  bank  and  brier. 

The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree, 

Than  he  that  warbles  long  and  loud 
And  drops  at  Glory’s  temple-gates, 

For  whom  the  carrion  vulture  waits 
To  tear  his  heart  before  the  crowd  ! 


TO  E.  L.,  ON  HIS  TRAVELS  IN 
GREECE. 

Illyrian  woodlands,  echoing  falls 
Of  water,  sheets  of  summer  glass, 

The  long  divine’  Peneian  pass, 

The  vast  Akrokeraunian  walls, 

Tomohrit,  Athos,  all  things  fair. 

With  such  a pencil,  such  a pen, 

You  shadow  forth  to  distant  men, 

I read  and  felt  that  I was  there  ; 

And  trust  me  while  I turn’d  the  page, 

And  track’d  you  still  on  classic  ground, 

I grew  in  gladness  till  I found 

My  spirits  in  the  golden  age. 

For  me  the  torrent  ever  pour’d 
And  glisten’d  — here  and  there  alone 
The  broad-limb’d  Gods  at  random  thrown 

By  fountain-urns  ; — and  Naiads  oar’d 

A glimmering  shoulder  under  gloom 
Of  cavern  pillars  ; on  the  swell 
The  silver  lily  heaved  and  fell  ; 

And  many  a slope  was  rich  in  bloom 

From  him  that  on  the  mountain  lea 
By  dancing  rivulets  fed  his  flocks. 

To  him  who  sat  upon  the  rocks. 

And  fluted  to  the  morning  sea. 


LADY  CLARE. 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 

And  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air. 
Lord  Ranald  brought  a lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin.  Lady  Clare. 


I trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 

Lovers  long-betroth’d  were  they  : 

They  too  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 

God’s  blessing  on  the  day  ! 

“ He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair  : 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth. 

And  that  is  well,”  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse. 

Said,  “ Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee?” 

“ It  was  my  cousin,”  said  Lady  Clare, 
“To-morrow  he  weds  with  me.” 

“ O God  be  thank’d  ! ” said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“ That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair  : 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands. 

And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“ Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse?  ” 

Said  Lady  Clare,  “ that  ye  speak  so  wild  ? ” 

“ As  God ’s  above,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

“ I speak  the  truth  : you  are  my  child. 

“ The  old  Earl’s  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 
I speak  the  truth,  as  I live  by  bread*! 

I buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child. 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead.” 

“ Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O mother,”  she  said,  “ if  this  be  true. 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due.” 

“ Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“ But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life. 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald’s, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife.” 

“ If  I ’m  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“ I will  speak  out,  for  I dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off,  the  broach  of  gold. 

And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by.” 

“ Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“ But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can.” 

She  said  “ Not  so  : but  I will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man.” 

“ Nay  now,  what  faith  ? ” said  Alice  the  nurs^, 
“ The  man  vt^ill  cleave  unto  his  right.” 

“ And  he  shall  have  it,”  the  lady  replied, 

“ Tho’  I should  die  to-night.” 

“ Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear  I 
Alas,  my  child,  I sinn’d  for  thee.” 

“ O mother,  mother,  mother,”  she  said, 

“ So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

“ Yet  here ’s  a kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so. 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I go.” 

She  clad  herself  in  a russet  gown. 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 


74 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 


She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
With  a single  rose  in  her  hair. 

The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden’s  hand,  s 
And  follow’d  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower : 

“ O Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth  I 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a village  maid. 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? ” 

“ If  I come  drest  like  a village  maid, 

I am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 

I am  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“And  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“ Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 
“For  I am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed. 

Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 

“ Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read.” 

O and  proudly  stood  she  up  ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail  : 

She  look’d  into  Lord  Ronald’s  eyes. 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse’s  tale. 

He  laugh’d  a laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 

He  turn’d,  and  kiss’d  her  where  she  stood  : 

“ If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I,”  said  he,  “ the  next  in  blood  — 

“ If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born. 

And  I,”  said  he,  “ the  lawful  heir. 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn. 

And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.’* 


THE  LORD  OF  BURLEIGH. 

In’  her  ear  he  whispers  gayly, 

“ If  my  heart  by  signs  can  tell, 
Maiden,  I have  watch’d  thee  daily. 

And  I think  thou  lov’st  me  well.’* 
She  replies,  in  accents  fainter, 

“ There  is  none  I love  like  thee.’* 

He  is  but  a landscape-painter. 

And  a village  maiden  she. 

He  to  lips,  that  fondly  falter, 

Presses  his  without  reproof : 

Leads  her  to  the  village  altar. 

And  they  leave  her  father’s  roof. 

“ I can  make  no  marriage  present ; 

Little  can  I give  my  wife. 

Love  w'ill  make  our  cottage  pleasant, 
And  I love  thee  more  than  life.’* 
They  by  parks  and  lodges  going 
See  the  lordly  castles  stand  ; 

Summer  woods,  about  them  blowing, 
Made  a murmur  in  the  land. 

From  deep  thought  himself  he  rouses. 
Says  to  her  that  loves  him  well, 

“ Let  us  see  these  handsome  houses 
Where  the  wealthy  nobles  dwell.’* 

6o  she  goes  by  him  attended, 

Hears  him  lovingly  converse. 


Sees  whatever  fair  and  splendid 
Lay  betwixt  his  home  and  hers  ; 

Parks  with  oak  and  chestnut  shady. 

Parks  and  order’d  gardens  great, 
Ancient  homes  of  lord  and  lady, 

Built  for  pleasure  and  for  state. 

All  he  shows  her  makes  him  dearer  ; 

Evermore  she  seems  to  gaze 
On  that  cottage  growing  nearer, 

Where  they  twain  will  spend  their  days. 
O but  she  will  love  him  truly  ! 

He  shall  have  a cheerful  home  ; 

She  will  order  all  things  dwly, 

When  beneath  his  roof  they  come. 

Thus  her  heart  rejoices  greatly. 

Till  a gateway  she  discerns 
With  armorial  bearings  stately, 

And  beneath  the  gate  she  turns ; 

Sees  a mansion  more  majestic 
Than  all  those  she  saw  before  : 

Many  a gallant  gay  domestic 
Bows  before  him  at  the  door. 

And  they  speak  in  gentle  murmur. 

When  they  answer  to  his  call. 

While  he  treads  with  footstep  firmer. 
Leading  on  from  hall  to  hall. 

And,  while  now  she  wonders  blindly. 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine. 

Proudly  turns  he  round  and  kindly, 

“ All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine.’* 

Here  he  lives  in  state  and  bounty, 

Lord  of  Burleigh,  fair  and  free. 

Not  a lord  in  all  the  county 
Is  so  great  a lord  as  he. 

All  at  once  the  color  flushes 

Her  sw'eet  face  from  brow  to  chin : 

As  it  were  with  shame  she  blushes. 

And  her  spirit  changed  within. 

Then  her  countenance  all  over 
Pale  again  as  death  did  prove ; 

But  he  clasp’d  her  like  a lover, 

And  he  cheer’d  her  soul  with  love. 

So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Tho’  at  times  her  spirits  sank  : 

Shaped  her  heart  w'ith  w’oman’s  meekness 
To  all  duties  of  her  rank  : 

And  a gentle  consort  made  he. 

And  her  gentle  mind  was  such 
That  she  grew  a noble  lady, 

And  the  people  loved  her  much. 

But  a trouble  weigh’d  upon  her. 

And  perplex’d  her,  night  and  morn. 
With  the  burden  of  an  honor 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born. 

Faint  she  grew,  and  ever  fainter, 

As  she  murmur’d,  “O,  that  he 
Were  once  more  that  landscape-painter. 
Which  did  win  my  heart  from  me  ! ” 

So  she  droop’d  and  droop’d  before  him. 
Fading  slow’ly  from  his  side  : 

Three  fair  children  first  she  bore  him, 
Then  before  her  time  she  died. 
Weeping,  weeping  late  and  early, 

Walking  up  and  pacing  down. 

Deeply  mourn’d  the  Lord  of  Burleigh, 
Burleigh-house  by  Stamford-town. 

And  he  came  to  look  upon  her. 

And  he  look’d  at  her  and  said. 


T 


Lord  Ronald  brought  a lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare.” 


SIR  LA  UNCELOT  AND  QUEEN  GUINEVERE.  — A FAREWELL.  75 


“ Bring  the  dress  and  put  it  on  her, 

That  she  wore  w'hen  she  was  wed.” 

Then  her  people,  softly  treading, 

Bore  to  earth  her  body,  drest 
In  the  dress  that  she  was  wed  in, 

That  her  spirit  might  have  rest. 

SIR  LAUNCELOT  AND  QUEEN 
GUINEVERE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain. 

With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a sunlit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laugh’d  between, 

And,  far  in  forest-deeps  unseen. 

The  topmost  elm-tree  gather’d  green 
From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song  : 
.Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong  : 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  w’heel’d  along, 
Hush’d  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong  : 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran. 

And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

Then,  in  the  boyhood  of  the  year, 

Sir  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Rode  thro’  the  coverts  of  the  deer. 

With  blissful  treble  ringing  clear. 

She  seem’d  a part  of  joyous  Spring ; 

A gown  of  grass-green  silk  she  wore. 
Buckled  with  golden  clasps  before  ; 

A light-green. tuft  of  plumes  she  bore 
Closed  in  a golden  ring. 

Now  on  some  twisted  ivy-net. 

Now  by  some  tinkling  rivulet. 

In  mosses  mixt  with  violet 

Her  cream- white  mule  his  pastern  set ; 

And  fleeter  now  she  skimm’d  the  plains 
Than  she  whose  elfin  prancer  springs 
By  night  to  eery  warblings. 

When  all  the  glimmering  moorland  rings 
With  jingling  bridle-reins. 

As  she  fled  fast  thro’  sun  and  shade, 

The  happy  winds  upon  her  play’d. 

Blowing  the  ringlet  from  the  braid  : 

She  look’d  so  lovely,  as  she  sway’d 
The  rein  w'ith  dainty  finger-tips, 

A man  had  given  all  other  bliss. 

And  all  his  worldly  worth  for  this, 

To  waste  his  whole  heart  in  one  kiss 
Upon  her  perfect  lips. 


A FAREWELL. 

F LOW  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 
Thy  tribute  w’ave  deliver  : 

No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
F orever  and  forever. 


Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A rivulet  then  a river  : 

Nowhere  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 
Forever  and  forever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree. 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver  ; 

And  here  by  thee  w'ill  hum  the  bee. 
Forever  and  forever. 

A thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A thousand  moons  will  quiver  ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

F orever  and  forever. 


THE  BEGGAR  MAID. 

Her  arms  across  her  breast  she  laid  ; 

She  was  more  fair  than  words  can  say : 
Barefooted  came  the  beggar  maid 
Before  the  king  Cophetua. 

In  robe  and  crown  the  king  stept  down, 

To  meet  and  greet  her  on  her  way  ; 

“ It  is  no  wonder,”  said  the  lords, 

“ She  is  more  beautiful  than  day.” 

As  shines  the  moon  in  clouded  skies. 

She  m her  poor  attire  was  seen  : 

One  praised  her  ankles,  one  her  eyes. 

One  her  dark  hair  and  lovesome  mien. 

So  sweet  a face,  such  angel  grace. 

In  all  that  land  had  never  been  : 
Cophetua  sware  a royal  oath  : 

“ This  beggar  maid  shall  be  my  queen  ! ” 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


I HAD  a vision  when  the  night  was  late  : 

A youth  came  riding  toward  a palace-gate. 
He  rode  a horse  with  wings,  that  would  have 
flown. 

But  that  his  heavy  rider  kept  him  down. 
And  from  the  palace  came  a child  of  sin, 
And  took  him  by  the  curls,  and  led  him  in. 
Where  sat  a company  with  heated  eyes. 
Expecting  when  a fountain  should  arise  : 

A sleepy  light  upon  their  brows  and  lips  — 
As  when  the  sun,  a crescent  of  eclipse. 
Dreams  over  lake  and  lawn,  and  isles  and 
capes  — 

Suffused  them,  sitting,  lying,  languid  shapes. 
By  heaps  of  gourds,  and  skins  of  wine,  and 
piles  of  grapes. 


Then  rhethought  I heard  a mellow  sound. 
Gathering  up  from  all  the  lower  ground  ; 
Narrowing  in  to  where  they  sat  assembled 
Low  voluptuous  music  winding  trembled, 
Wov’n  in  circles  : they  that  heard  it  sigh’d, 
Panted  hand  in  hand  with  faces  pale. 

Swung  themselves,  and  in  low  tones  re- 
plied ; 

Till  the  fountain  spouted,  showering  wide 
Sleet  of  diamond- drift  and  pearly  hail ; 


76 

Then  the  music  touch’d  the  gates  and  died  ; 
Rose  again  from  where  it  seem’d  to  fail, 
Storm’d  in  orbs  of  song,  a growing  gale  ; 

Till  thronging  in  and  in,  to  where  they 
waited, 

As ’t  were  a hundred-throated  nightingale, 
The  strong  tempestuous  treble  throbb’d  and 
palpitated  ; 

Ran  into  its  giddiest  whirl  of  sound. 

Caught  the  sparkles,  and  in  circles. 

Purple  gauzes,  golden  hazes,  liquid  mazes. 
Flung  the  torrent  rainbow  round  : 

Then  they  started  from  their  places, 

Moved  w'ith  violence,  changed  in  hue. 
Caught  each  other  with  wild  grimaces, 
Half-invisible  to  the  view. 

Wheeling  with  precipitate  paces 
To  the  melody,  till  they  flew, 

Hair,  and  eyes,  and  limbs,  and  faces, 
Twisted  hard  in  fierce  embraces, 

Like  to  Furies,  like  to  Graces, 

Dash’d  together  in  blinding  dew  : 

Till,  kill’d  with  some  luxurious  agony. 

The  nerve-dissolving  melody 
Flutter'd  headlong  from  the  sky. 


3* 

And  then  I look’d  up  toward  a mountain- 
tract. 

That  girt  the  region  with  high  cliff  and  lawn  : 
I saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 

God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 
Unheeded  ; and  detaching,  fold  by  fold. 
From  those  still  heights,  and,  slowly  draw- 
ing near, 

A vapor  heavy,  hueless/ formless,  cold. 
Came  floating  on  for  many  a month  and 
year. 

Unheeded : and  I thought  I would  have 
spoken. 

And  warned  that  madman  ere  it  grew  too 
late  : 

But,  as  in  dreams,  I could  not.  Mine  was 
broken. 

When  that  cold  vapor  touch’d  the  palace 
,gate. 

And  link’d  again.  I saw  within  my  head 
A gray  and  gap-tooth’d  man  as  lean  as  death. 
Who  slowly  rode  across  a wither’d  heath. 
And  lighted  at  a ruin’d  inn,  and  said  : 

4- 

“ Wrinkled  hostler,  grim  and  thin  ! 

Here  is  custom  come  yo^ir  way  ; 

Take  my  brute,  and  lead  nim  in. 

Stuff  his  ribs  with  mouldy  hay. 

“ Bitter  barmaid,  waning  fast  ! 

See  that  sheets  are  on  my  bed  ; 

What  ! the  flower  of  life  is  past : 

It  is  long  before  you  wed. 

“ Slip-shod  waiter,  lank  and  sour. 

At  the  Dragon  on  the  heath  ! 

Let  us  have  a quiet  hour, 

Let  us  hob-and-nob  with  Death. 


I am  old,  but  let  me  drink  ; 

Bring  me  spices,  bring  me  wine  ; 

I remember,  when  I think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine. 

“ Wine  is  good  for  shrivell’d  lips, 

When  a blanket  wraps  the  day. 

When  the  rotten  woodland  drips. 

And  the  leaf  is  stamp’d  in  clay, 

“ Sit  thee  down,  and  have  no  shame. 

Cheek  by  jowl,  and  knee  by  knee  : 

What  care  I for  any  name? 

What  for  order  or  degree  ? 

“ Let  me  screw  thee  up  a peg  : 

Let  me  loose  thy  tongue' w'ith  wane: 
Callest  thou  that  thing  a leg? 

Which  is  thinnest?  thine  or  mine  ? 

“ Thou  shalt  not  be  saved  by  w'orks : 

Thou  hast  been  a sinner  too  : 

Ruin’d  trunks  on  wither’d  forks. 

Empty  scarecrows,  I and  you  ! 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 

Have  a rouse  before  the  morn : 

Every  moment  dies  a man. 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

“We  are  men  of  ruin’d  blood  ; 

Therefore  comes  it  w'e  are  w'ise. 

Fish  are  w'e  that  love  the  mud. 

Rising  to  no  fancy-flies. 

“ Name  and  fame  ! to  fly  sublime 
Through  the  courts,  the  camps,  the  schools, 
Is  to  be  the  ball  of  Time, 

Bandied  in  the  hands  of  fools. 

“ Friendship  ! — to  be  two  in  one  — 

Let  the  canting  liar  pack  ! 

Well  I know,  when  I am  gone. 

How  she  mouths  behind  my  back. 

“ Virtue  ! — to  be  good  and  just  — 

Every  heart,  when  sifted  well. 

Is  a clot  of  warmer  dust, 

Mix’d  with  cunning  sparks  of  hell. 

“ O ! we  two  as  well  can  look 
Whited  thought  and  cleanly  life 
As  the  priest,  above  his  book 
Leering  at  his  neighbor’s  wife. 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  : 

Have  a rouse  before  the  morn  : 

Every  moment  dies  a man. 

Every  moment  one  is  born. 

“ Drink,  and  let  the  parties  rave  : 

They  are  fill’d  w'ith  idle  spleen  ; 

Rising,  falling,  like  a w'ave. 

For  they  know  not  what  they  mean. 


TflE  VISION  OF  SIN. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIN 


“ He  that  roars  for  liberty 
Faster  binds  a tyrant’s  power  ; 

And  the  tyrant’s  cruel  glee 
Forces  on  the  freer  hour. 

“’Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup: 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

“ Greet  her  with  applausive  breath, 
Freedom,  gayly  doth  she  tread  ; 

In  her  right  a civic  wreath, 

In  her  left  a human  head. 

“No,  I love  not  what  is  new  ; 

' She  is  of  an  ancient  house  : 

And  I think  we  know  the  hue 
Of  that  cap  upon  her  brows. 

“ Let  her  go  ! her  thirst  she  slakes 
Where  the  bloody  conduit  runs  : 

Then  her  sweetest  meal  she  makes 
On  the  first-born  of  her  sons. 

“ Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool  — 
Visions  of  a perfect  State  : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool. 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 

“ Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave. 
Till  thy  drooping  courage  rise. 

And  the  glow-worm  of  the  grave. 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes. 

“ Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue  ; 
Set  thy  hoary  fancies  free  ; 

What  is  loathsome  to  the  young 
Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

“ Change,  reverting  to  the  years. 
When  thy  nerves  could  understand 

What  there  is  in  loving  tears. 

And  the  warmth  of  hand  in  hand. 

“ Tell  me  tales  of  thy  first  love  — 
April  hopes,  the  fools  of  chance  : 

Till  the  graves  begin  to  move. 

And  the  dead  begin  to  dance. 

“ Fill  the  can,  and  fill  the  cup : 

All  the  windy  ways  of  men 

Are  but  dust  that  rises  up, 

And  is  lightly  laid  again. 

“Trooping  from  their  mouldy  dens 
The  chap-fallen  circle  spreads  : 

Welcome,  fellow-citizens. 

Hollow  hearts  and  empty  heads  I 

“ You  are  bones,  and  what  of  that  ? 
Every  face,  however  full, 

Padded  round  with  flesh  and  fat, 

Is  but  modell’d  on  a skull. 


77 

“ Death  is  king,  and  Vivat  Rex  I 
Tread  a measure  on  the  stones, 

Madam  — if  I know  your  sex, 

From  the  fashion  of  your  bones. 

“No,  I cannot  praise  the  fire 
In  your  eye  — nor  yet  your  lip  : 

All  the  more  do  I admire 
Joints  of  cunning  workmanship. 

“ Lo  ! God’s  likeness  — the  ground-plan  — 
Neither  modell’d,  glazed,  or  framed: 

Buss  me,  thou  rough  sketch  of  man, 

Far  too  naked  to  be  shamed  ! 


“ Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 
While  we  keep  a little  breath  ! 
Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance  ! 

Hob-and-nob  with  brother  Death  I 


“ Thou  art  mazed,  the  night  is  long. 
And  the  longer  night  is  near : 

What ! I am  not  all  as  wrong 
As  a bitter  jest  is  dear. 

“ Youthful  hopes,  by  scores,  to  all. 
When  the  locks  are  crisp  and  curl’d  ; 
Unto  me  my  maudlin  gall 
And  my  mockeries  of  the  world. 

“ Fill  the  cup,  and  fill  the  can  ! 

Mingle  madness,  mingle  scorn  ! 
Dregs  of  life,  and  lees  of  man  ; 

Yet  we  will  not  die  forlorn.” 


5. 

The  voice  grew  faint : there  came  a further 
change : 

Once  more  uprose  the  mystic  mountain- 
range  : 

Below  were  men  and  horses  pierced  with 
worms, 

And  slowly  quickening  into  lower  forms  ; 

By  shards  and  scurf  of  salt,  and  scum  of 
dross. 

Old  plash  of  rains,  and  refuse  patch’d  with 
moss. 

Then  some  one  spake : “ Behold  ! it  was  a 
crime 

Of  sense  avenged  by  sense  that  wore  with 
tirne.” 

Another  said:  “The  crime  of  sense  became 

The  crime  of  malice,  and  is  equal  blame.” 

And  one  : “ He  had  not  wholly  quench’d  his 
power ; 

A little  grain  of  conscience  made  him  sour.” 

At  last  I heard  a voice  upon  the  slope 

Cry  to  the  summit,  “ Is  there  any  hope?” 

To  which  an  answer  peal’d  from  that  high 
land. 

But  in  a tongue  no  man  could  understand  ; 

And  on  the  glimmering  limit  far  withdrawn 

God  made  Himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn. 


78 


THE  EAGLE.  — THE  POETS  SONG. 


Come  not,  when  I am  dead, 

I'o  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst 
not  save.  • 

There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime 
I care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest ; 

Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I am  sick  of  Time, 
And  I desire  to  rest. 

Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I 
lie : 

Go  by,  go  by.  ^ 


THE  EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands. 

Ring’d  with  the  azure  w'orld,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a thunderbolt  he  falls. 


Move  eastward,  happy  earth,  and  leave 
Yon  orange  sunset  waning  slow  : 
From  fringes  of  the  faded  eve, 

O,  happy  planet,  eastward  go  : 

Till  over  thy.  dark  shoulder  glow 
Thy  silver  sister-world,  and  rise 
To  glass  herself  in  dewy  eyes 
That  watch  me  from  the  glen  below. 

Ah,  bear  me  with  thee,  lightly  borne, 
Dip  forward  under  starry  light. 

And  move  me  to  my  marriage-morn, 
And  round  again  to  happy  night. 


Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O Sea  ! 

And  I would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me.  • 

O well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy. 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O well  for  the  sailor  lad. 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ; 

But  O for  the  touch  of  a vanish’d  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O Sea  ! ^ 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


THE  POET’S  SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose. 

He  pass’d  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street, 
A light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat. 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a lonely  place. 

And  chanted  a melody  loud  and  sweet. 
That  made  the  w'ild-sw'an  pause  in  her  cloud. 
And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee. 

The  snake  slipt  under  a spray. 

The  w'ild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his 
beak. 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey. 

And  the  nightingale  thought,  “ I have  sung 
many  songs, 

But  never  a one  so  gay. 

For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 
When  the  years  have  died  away.” 


TH^  PRINCESS:  A MEDLEY. 


79 


THE  PRINCESS: 

A MEDLEY. 


TO 


HENRY  LUSHINGTON 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  INSCRIBED  BY  HIS  FRIEND 


A.  TENNYSON. 


PROLOGUE. 


Sir  Walter  Vivian  all  a summer’s  day 
Gave  his  broad  lawns  until  the  set  of  sun 
Up  to  the  people  : thither  flock’d  at  noon 
His  tenants,  wife  and  child,  and  thither  half 
The  neighboring  borough  with  their  Institute 
Of  which  he  was  the  patron.  I was  there 
From  college,  visiting  the  son,  — the  son 
A Walter  too,  — with  others  of  our  set. 

Five  others  : we  were  seven  at  Vivian-place. 


And  me  that  morning  Walter  show’d  the 
house, 

Greek,  set  with  busts  : from  vases  in  the  hall 
Flowers  of  all  heavens,  and  lovelier  than 
their  names. 

Grew  side  by  side  ; and  on  the  pavement  lay 
Carved  stones  of  the  Abbey-ruin  in  the  park. 
Huge  Ammonites,  and  the  first  bones  of 
Time ; 

And  on  the  tables  every  clime  and  age 
Jumbled  together:  celts  and  calumets. 
Claymore  and  snow-shoe,  toys  in  lava,  fans 
Of  sandal,  amber,  ancient  rosaries. 

Laborious  orient  ivory  sphere  in  sphere. 

The  cursed  Malayan  crease,  and  battle-clubs 
From  the  isles  of  palm;  and  higher  on  the 
walls, 

Betwixt  the  monstrous  horns  of  elk  and  deer, 
His  own  forefathers’  arms  and  armor  hung. 


And  “this,”  he  said,  “was  Hugh’s  at 
Agincourt ; 

And  that  was  old  Sir  Ralph’s  at  Ascalon  : 

A good  knight  he  ! we  keep  a chronicle 

With  all  about  him,”  — which  he  brought, 
and  I 

Dived  in  a hoard  of  tales  that  dealt  with 
knights 

Half-legend,  half-historic,  counts  and  kings 

Who  laid  about  them  at  their  wills  and  died  ; 

And  mixt  with  these,  a lady,  one  that  arm’d 

Her  own  fair  head,  and  sallying  thro’  the 
gate. 

Had  beat  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her 
walls.  ' 


“ O miracle  of  women,”  said  the  book, 

“ O noble  heart  who,  being  strait-besieged 


By  this  wild  king  to  force  her  to  his  wish, 
Nor  bent,  nor  broke,  nor  shunn’d  a soldier’s 
death. 

But  now  when  all  was  lost  or  seem’d  as  lost — 
Her  stature  more  than  mortal  in  the  burst 
Of  sunrise,  her  arm  lifted,  eyes  on  fire  — 
Brake  with  a blast  of  trumpets  from  the  gate. 
And,  falling  on  them  like  a thunderbolt, 

She  trampled  some  beneath  her  horses’  heels, 
And  some  were  whelm’d  with  missiles  of  the 
wall. 

And  some  were  push’d  with  lances  from  the 
rock. 

And  part  were  drown’d  within  the  whirling 
brook  ; 

O miracle  of  noble  womanhood  ! ” 

So  sang  the  gallant  glorious  chronicle  ; 
And,  I all  rapt  in  this,  “Come  out,”  he  said, 
“ To  the  Abbey:  there  is  Aunt  Elizabeth 
And  sister  Lilia  with  the  rest.”  We  went 
(I  kept  the  book  and  had  my  finger  in  it) 
Down  thro’  the  park  : strange  was  the  sight 
to  me ; 

For  all  the  sloping  pasture  murmur’d,  sown 
With  happy  faces  and  with  holiday. 

There  moved  the  multitude,  a thousand 
heads  ; 

The  patient  leaders  of  their  Institute 
Taught  them  with  facts.  One  rear’d  a font 
of  stone 

And  drew  from  butts  of  water  on  the  slope. 
The  fountain  of  the  moment,  playing  now 
A twisted  snake,  aiid  now  a rain  of  pearls. 
Or  steep-up  spout  whereon  the  gilded  ball 
Danced  like  a wisp  : and  somewhat  lower 
down 

A man  wdth  knobs  and  wires  and  vials  fired 
A cannon  ; Echo  answer’d  in  her  sleep 
From  hollow  fields  : and  here  were  telescopes 
For  azure  views  ; and  there  a group  of  girls 
In  circle  waited,  whom  the  electric  shock 
Dislink’d  with  shrieks  and  laughter : round 
the  lake 

A little  clock-work  steamer  paddling  plied 
And  shook  the  lilies : perch’d  about  the 
knolls 

A dozen  angry  models  jetted  steam  : 

A petty  railway  ran  : a fire-balloon 


8o  THE  PRINCESS : 


Rose  gem-like  up  before  the  dusky  groves 
And  dropt  a fairy  parachute  and  past : 

And  there  thro’  twenty  posts  of  telegraph 
They  flashed  a saucy  message  to  and  fro 
Between  the  mimic  stations  ; so  that  sport 
Went  hand  in  hand  with  Science  ; otherwhere 
Pure  sport : a herd  of  boys  with  clamor 
bowl’d 

And  stump’d  the  wicket  ; babies  roll’d  about 
Like  tumbled  fruit  in  grass;  and  men  and 
maids 

Arranged  a country  dance,  and  flew  thro’ 

. ... 

And  shadow,  while  the  twangling  violin 
Struck  up  with  Soldier-laddie,  and  overhead 
The  broad  ambrosial  aisles  of  lofty  lime 
Made  noise  with  bees  and  breeze  from  end  to 
end. 

Strange  was  the  sight  and  smacking  of  the 
time ; 

And  long  w^e  gazed,  but  satiated  at  length 
Came  to  the  ruins.  High-arch’d  and  ivy- 
claspt. 

Of  finest  Gothic  lighter  than  a fire. 

Thro’  one  wide  chasm  of  time  and  frost  they 
gave 

The  park,  the  crowd,  the  house ; but  all 
within 

The  sw-ard  w’as  trim  as  any  garden  lawn  : 
And  here  we  lit  on  Aunt  Elizabeth, 

And  Lilia  with  the  rest,  and  lady  friends 
From  neighbor  seats  : and  there  w'as  Ralph 
himself, 

A broken  statue  propt  against  the  w'all. 

As  gay  as  any.  Lilia  wild  with  «port. 

Half  child,  half  w'oman  as  she  was,  had  wound 
A scarf  of  orange  round  the  stony  helm. 

And  robed  the  shoulders  in  a rosy  silk. 

That  made  the  old  warrior  from  his  ivied  nook 
Glow  like  a sunbeam  : near  his  tomb  a feast 
Shone,  silver-set  ; about  it  lay  the  guests. 
And  there  we  joined  them  : then  the  maiden 
Aunt 

Took  this  fair  day  for  text,  and  from  it 
preach’d 

An  universal  culture  for  the  crow'd. 

And  all  things  great  ; but  we,  unw'orthier, 
told 

Of  College  : he  had  climb’d  across  the  spikes. 
And  he  had  squeezed  himself  betwixt  the  bars. 
And  he  had  breathed  the  Proctor’s  dogs  : and 
one 

Discuss’d  his  tutor,  rough  to  common  men, 
But  honeying  at  the  whisper  of  a lord  ; 

And  one  the  Master,  as  a rogue  in  grain 
Veneer’d  with  sanctimonious  theory. 

But  while  they  talk’d,  above  their  heads  I 
saw 

The  feudal  w'an-ior  lady-clad  ; which  brought 
My  book  to  mind  ; and  opening  this  I read 
Of  old  Sir  Ralph  a page  or  two  that  rang 
With  tilt  and  tourney  ; then  the  tale  of  her 
That  drove  her  foes  with  slaughter  from  her 
walls. 

And  much  I praised  her  nobleness,  and 
“Where,” 


Ask’d  Walter,  patting  Lilia’s  head  (she  lay 
Beside  him)  “ lives  there  such  a woman 
now?” 

Quick  answer’d  Lilia,  “There  are  thou- 
sands now 

Such  women,  but  convention  beats  them 
down  : • 

It  is  but  bringing  up  ; no  more  than  that : 
You  men  have  done  it  : how  I hate  you  all  ! 
Ah,  were  I something  great  ! I wish  1 were 
Some  mighty  poetess,  1 would  shame  you 
then. 

That  love  to  keep  us  children  ! O I wish 
That  I were  some  great  Princess,  I would 
build 

Far  off  from  men  a college  like  a man’s, 

And  I would  teach  them  all  that  men  are 
taught : 

We  are  twice  as  quick  ! ” And  here  she 
shook  aside 

The  hand  that  play’d  the  patron  with  her 
curls. 

And  one  said  smiling,  “ Pretty  were  the 
sight 

If  our  old  halls  could  change  their  sex,  and 
flaunt 

With  prudes  for  proctors,  dowagers  for  deans. 
And  sweet  girl-graduates  in  their  golden  hair. 
I think  they  shouldnot  wear  our  rusty  gowns. 
But  move  as  rich  as  Emperor-moths  or  Ralph 
Who  shines  so  in  the  corner  ; yet  I fear. 

If  there  were  many  Lilias  in  the  brood, 
However  deep  you  might  embower  the  nest. 
Some  boy  would  spy  it.” 

At  this  upon  the  sward 
She  tapt  her  tiny  silken-sandal’d  foot : 

“ That ’s  your  light  way  ; but  I would  make 
it  death 

For  any  male  thing  but  to  peep  at  us.” 

Petulant  she  spoke,  and  at  herself  she 
laugh’d  ; 

A rose-bud  set  with  little  wilful  thorns. 

And  sweet  as  English  air  could  make  her, 
she  : 

But  Waller  hail’d  a score  of  names  upon  her. 
And  “ petty  Ogress,”  and  “ ungrateful 
Puss,” 

And  swore  he  long’d  at  College,  only  long’d. 
All  else  was  well,  for  she-society. 

They  boated  and  they  cricketed  ; they  talk’d 
At  wine,  in  clubs,  of  art,  of  politics  ; 

They  lost  their  weeks ; they  vext  the  souls  of 
deans  ; 

They  rode  ; they  betted  ; made  a hundred 
friends, 

And  caught  the  blossom  of  the  flying  terms. 
But  miss’d  the  mignonette  of  Vivian-place. 
The  little  hearth-flower  Lilia.  Ihus  he 
spoke. 

Part  banter,  part  affection. 

“True,”  she  said, 
“We  doubt  not  that.  O yes,  you  miss’d  us 
much. 

I ’ll  stake  my  ruby  ring  upon  it  you  did.” 

She  held  it  out ; and  as  a parrot  turns 
Up  thro’  gilt  wires  a crafty  loving  eye. 


T 


A MEDLEY.  8i 


And  takes  a lady’s  finger  with  all  care, 

And  bites  it  for  true  heart  and  not  for  harm, 
So  he  with  Lilia’s.  Daintily  she  shriek’d 
And  wrung  it.  “ Doubt  my  word  again  ! ” 
he  said. 

“ Come,  listen  ! here  is  proof  that  you  were 
miss’d : 

We  seven  stay’d  at  Christmas  up  to  read, 
And  there  we  took  one  tutor  as  to  read : 

The  hard-grain’d  Muses  of  the  cube  and 
square 

Were  out  of  season  : never  man,  I think, 

So  moulder’d  in  a sinecure  as  he  : 

For  while  our  cloisters  echo’d  frosty  feet. 

And  our  long  walks  were  stript  as  bare  as 
brooms. 

We  did  but  talk  you  over,  pledge  you  all 
In  wassail : often,  like  as  many  girls  — 

Sick  for  the  hollies  and  the  yews  of  home  — 
As  many  little  trifling  Lilias  — play’d 
Charades  and  riddles  as  at  Christmas  here, 
And  what  my  thotight  and  wheji  and 
where  and  how., 

And  often  told  a tale  from  mouth  to  mouth 
As  here  at  Christmas.” 

She  remember’d  that ; 
A pleasant  game,  she  thought ; she  liked  it 
more 

Than  magic  music,  forfeits,  all  the  rest. 

But  these  — what  kind  of  tales  did  men  tell 
men, 

She  wonder’d,  by  themselves? 

A half-disdain 

Perch’d  on  the  pouted  blossom  of  her  lips  : 
And  Walter  nodded  at  me  ; He  began, 

The  rest  would  follow,  each  in  turn  ; and  so 
We  forged  a sevenfold  story.  Kind?  what 
kind? 

Chimeras,  crotchets,  Christmas  solecisms. 
Seven-headed  monsters  only  made  to  kill 
Time  by  the  fire  in  winter.” 

“ Kill  him  now. 

The  tyrant ! kill  him  in  the  summer  too,” 
Said  Lilia;  “Why  not  now,”  the  maiden 
Aunt. 

“ Why  not  a summer’s  as  a winter’s  tale  ? 

A tale  for  summer  as  befits  the  time. 

And  something  it  should  be  to  suit  the  place. 
Heroic,  for  a hero  lies  beneath, 

Grave,  solemn  ! ” 

Walter  warp’d  his  mouth  at  this 
To  something  so  mock-solemn,  that  I laugh’d 
And  Lilia  woke  with  sudden-shrilling  mirth 
An  echo  like  a ghostly  woodpecker. 

Hid  in  the  ruins  ; till  the  maiden  Aunt 
(A  little  sense  of  wrong  had  touch’d  her  face 
With  color)  turn’d  to  me  with  “As  you  will  ; 
Heroic  if  you  will,  or  what  you  will. 

Or  be  yourself  your  hero  if  you  will.” 

“Take  Lilia,  then,  for  heroine,”  clamor’d 
he, 

“And  make  her  some  great  Princess,  six  feet 
high, 

Grand,  epic,  homicidal  ; and  be  you 
The  Prince  to  win  her  ! ” 

“Then  follow  me,  the  Prince,” 
I answer’d,  “ each  be  hero  in  his  turn  ! 
Seven  and  yet  one,  like  shadows  in  a dream. — 


Heroic  seems  our  Princess  as  required.  — 
But  something  made  to  suit  with  Time  and 
place, 

A Gothic  ruin  and  a Grecian  house, 

A talk  of  college  and  of  ladies’  rights, 

A feudal  knight  in  silken  masquerade. 

And,  yonder,  shrieks  and  strange  experi- 
ments 

For  which  the  good  Sir  Ralph  had  burnt 
them  all  — 

This  were  a medley ! we  should  have  him 
back 

Who  told  the  ‘ Winter’s  tale  ’ to  do  it  for  us. 
No  matter : we  will  say  whatever  comes. 
And  let  the  ladies  sing  us,  if  they  will, 

Frorn  time  to  time,  some  ballad  or  a song 
To  give  us  breathing-space.” 

So  I began, 

And  the  rest  follow’d  : and  the  women  sang 
Between  the  rougher  voices  of  the  men. 
Like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind  : 

And  here  I give  the  story  and  the  songs. 


I. 

A Prince  I was,  blue-eyed,  and  fair  in  face. 
Of  temper  amorous,  as  the  first  of  May, 
With  lengths  of  yellow  ringlet,  like  a girl. 
For  on  my  cradle  shone  the  Northern  star. 

There  lived  an  ancient  legend  in  our  house. 
Some  sorcerer,  whom  a far-off  grandsire  burnt 
Because  he  cast  no  shadow,  had  foretold. 
Dying,  that  none  of  all  our  blood  should  know 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  and  that  one 
Should  come  to  fight  with  shadows  and  to  fall. 
For  so,  my  mother  said,  the  story  ran. 

And,  truly,  waking  dreams  were,  more  or  less. 
An  old  and  strange  affection  of  the  house. 
Myself  too  had  weird  seizures.  Heaven 
knows  what : 

On  a sudden  in  the  midst  of  men  and  day. 
And  while  I walk’d  and  talk’d  as  heretofore, 
I seem’d  to  move  among  a world  of  ghosts, 
And  feel  myself  the  shadow  of  a dream. 

Our  great  court-Galen  poised  his  gilt-head 
cane, 

And  paw’d  his  beard,  and  mutter’d  “cata- 
lepsy.” 

My  mother  pitying  made  a thousand  prayers ; 
My  mother  was  as  mild  as  any  saint, 
Half-canonized  by  all  that  look’d  on  her, 

So  gracious  was  her  tact  and  tenderness  ; 

But  my  good  father  thought  a king  a king; 
He  cared  not  for  the  affection  of  the  house  ; 
He  held  his  sceptre  like  a pedant’s  wand 
To  lash  offence,  and  with  long  arms  and 
hands 

Reach’d  out,  and  pick’d  offenders  from  the 
mass 

For  judgment. 

Now  it  chanced  that  I had  been. 
While  life  was  yet  in  bud  and  blade,  be- 
troth’d 

To  one,  a neighboring  Princess  : she  to  me 
Was  proxy- wedded  with  a bootless  calf 
At  eight  years  old ; and  still  from  time  to  time 


82  THE  PRINCESS  : 


Came  murmurs  of  her  beauty  from  the  South, 
And  of  her  brethren,  youths  of  puissance  ; 
And  still  I wore  her  picture  by  my  heart, 

And  one  dark  tress ; and  all  around  them  both 
Sweet  thoughts  would  swarm  as  bees  about 
their  queen. 

But  when  the  days  drew  nigh  that  I should 
wed. 

My  father  sent  ambassadors  with  furs 
And  jewels,  gifts,  fo  fetch  her:  these  brought 
back 

A present,  a great  labor  of  the  loom  ; 

And  therewithal  an  answer  vague  as  wind  : 
Besides,  they  saw  the  king ; he  took  the  gifts  ; 
He  said  there  was  a compact ; that  was  true : 
But  then  she  had  a wull ; was  he  to  blame? 
And  maiden  fancies  ; loved  to  live  alone 
Among  her  women  ; certain,  would  not  wed. 

That  morning  in  the  presence  room  I stood 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  my  two  friends : 
The  first,  a gentleman  of  broken  means 
(His  father’s  fault)  but  given  to  starts  and 
bursts 

Of  revel ; and  the  last,  my  other  heart, 

And  almost  my  half-self,  for  still  we  moved 
Together,  twinn’d  as  horse’s  ear  and  eye. 

Now,  while  they  spake,  I saw  my  father’s 
face 

Grow  long  and  troubled  like  a rising  moon. 
Inflamed  with  wrath  : he  started  on  his  feet, 
Tore  the  king’s  letter,  snow’d  it  down,  and 
rent 

The  wonder  of  the  loom  thro’  warp  and  woof 
From  skirt  to  skirt  ; and  at  the  last  he  sware 
I'hat  he  would  send  a hundred  thousand  men. 
And  bring  her  in  a whirlwind  : then  he  chew’d 
The  thrice-turn’d  cud  of  wrath,  and  cook’d 
his  spleen. 

Communing  with  his  captains  of  the  war. 

At  last  I spoke.  “ My  father,  let  me  go. 

It  cannot  be  but  some  gross  error  lies 
In  this  report,  this  answer  of  a king, 

Whom  all  men  rate  as  kind  and  hospitable  : 
Or,  maybe,  I myself,  my  bride  once  seen, 
Whate’er  my  grief  to  find  her  less  than  fame. 
May  rue  the  bargain  made.”  And  Florian 
said  : ^ 

“ I have  a sister  at  the  foreign  court, 

Who  moves  about  the  Princess  ; she,  you 
know, 

Who  wedded  with  a nobleman  from  thence  : 
He,  dying  lately,  left  her,  as  I hear. 

The  lady  of  three  castles  in  that  land  : 

Thro’  her  this  matter  might  be  sifted  clean.” 
And  Cyril  whisper’d:  “Take  me  with  you 
too.”^ 

Then  laughing  “ what,  if  these  weird  seizures 
come 

Upon  you  in  those  lands,  and  no  one  near 
To  point  you  out  the  shadow  from  the  truth  ! 
Take  me  : I ’ll  serve  you  better  in  a strait  ; 

I grate  on  rusty  hinges  here  ” : but  “ No  ! ” 
Roar’d  the  rough  king,  “ you  shall  not ; we 
ourself 


Will  crush  her  pretty  maiden  fancies  dead 
In  iron  gauntlets  : break  the  council  up.” 

But  when  the  council  broke,  I rose  and 
past 

Thro’  the  wild  woods  that  hung  about  the 
town  ; 

Found  a still  place,  and  pluck’d  her  likeness 
out ; 

Laid  it  on  flowers,  and  watch’d  it  lying  bathed 
In  the  green  gleam  of  dewy-tassell’d  trees: 
What  were  those  fancies?  wherefore  break 
her  troth  ? 

Proud  look’d  the  lips  : but  while  I medi- 
tated 

A wind  arose  and  rush’d  upon  the  South, 
And  shook  the  songs,  the  whispers,  and  th« 
shrieks 

Of  the  wild  woods  together  ; and  a Voice 
Went  with  it,  “ Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 
win.” 

Then,  ere  the  silver  sickle  of  that  month 
Became  her  golden  shield,  I stole  from  court 
With  Cyril  and  with  Florian,  unperceived. 
Cat-footed  thro’  the  towm  and  half  in  dread 
To  hear  my  father’s  clamor  at  our  backs 
With  Ho ! from  some  bay-window  shake 
the  night ; 

But  all  was  quiet : from  the  bastion’d  walls 
Like  threaded  spiders,  one  by  one,  w'e  dropt, 
And  flying  reach’d  the  frontier : then  we 
crost 

To  a livelier  land  ; and  so  by  tilth  and  grange. 
And  vines,  and  blowing  bosks  of  wilderness. 
We  gain’d  the  mother-city  thick  with  towers, 
And  in  the  imperial  palace  found  the  king. 

His  name  was  Gama  ; crack’d  and  small 
his  voice. 

But  bland  the  smile  that  like  a wrinkling 
wind 

On  glassy  water  drove  his  cheek  in  lines  ; 

A little  dry  old  man,  without  a star. 

Not  like  a king  : three  days  he  feasted  us. 
And  on  the  fourth  I spake  of  why  w'e  came. 
And  my  betroth’d.  “ You  do  us,  Prince,” 
he  said. 

Airing  a snowy  hand  and  signet  gem, 

“ All  honor.  We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  our  sweet  youth  : there  did  a compact  pass 
Long  summers  back,  a kind  of  ceremony  — 

I think  the  year  in  which  our  olives  fail’d. 

I would  you  had  lier.  Prince,  with  all  my 
heart. 

With  my  full  heart : but  there  were  wddows 
here. 

Two  widows.  Lady  Psyche,  Lady  Blanche  ; 
They  fed  her  theories,  in  and  out  of  place 
Maintaining  that  with  equal  husbandry 
The  woman  were  an  equal  to  the  man. 

They  harp’d  on  this  ; with  this  our  banquets 
rang ; 

Our  dances  broke  and  buzz’d  in  knots  of  talk ; 
Nothing  but  this  ; my  very  ears  w'ere  hot 
To  hear  them : knowledge,  so  my  daughter 
held. 

Was  all  in  all ; they  had  but  been,  she  thought, 


A MEDLEY.  83 


As  children  ; they  must  lose  the  clilld,  assume 
The  woman  ; then,  Sir,  awful  odes  she  wrote, 
Too  awful,  sure,  for  what  they  treated  of, 

But  all  she  is  and  does  is  awful ; odes 
About  this  losing  of  the  child  ; and  rhymes 
And  dismal  lyrics,  prophesying  change 
Beyond  all  reason  ; these  the  women  sang ; 
And  they  that  know  such  things  — I sought 
but  peace  ; 

No  critic  I — would  call  them  masterpieces ; 
They  master’d  me.  At  last  she  begg’d  a boon 
A certain  summer-palace  which  I have 
Hard  by  your  father’s  frontier  ; I said  no. 
Yet  being  an  easy  man,  gave  it  ; and  there, 
All  wild  to  found  an  University 
For  maidens,  on  the  spur  she  fled  ; and  more 
We  know  not,  — only  this  : they  see  no  men. 
Not  ev’n  her  brother  Arac,  nor  the  twins 
Her  brethren,  tho’  they  love  her,  look  upon  her 
As  on  a kind  of  paragon  ; and  I 
(Pardon  me  saying  it)  were  much  loath  to 
breed 

Dispute  betwixt  myself  and  mine  : but  since 
(And  I confess  with  right)  you  think  me  bound 
In  some  sort,  1 can  give  you  letters  to  her  ; 
And  yet,  to  speak  the  truth,  I rate  your  chance 
Almost  at  naked  nothing.” 

Thus  the  king ; 

And  I,  tho’  nettled  that  he  seem’d  to  slur 
With  garrulous  ease  and  oily  courtesies 
Our  formal  compact,  yet,  not  less  (all  frets 
But  chafing  me  on  fire  to  find  my  bride) 
Went  forth  again  with  both  my  friends.  We 
rode 

Many  a long  league  back  to  the  North.  At  last 
From  hills,  that  look’d  across  a land  of  hope. 
We  dropt  with  evening  on  a rustic  town 
Set  in  a gleaming  river’s  crescent-curve, 

Close  at  the  boundary  of  the  liberties  ; 

There  enter’d  an  old  hostel,  call’d  mine  host 
To  council,  plied  him  with  his  richest  wines, 
And  show’d  the  late-writ  letters  of  the  king. 

He  with  a long  low  sibilation,  stared 
As  blank  as  death  in  marble  ; then  exclaim’d 
Averring  it  was  clear  against  all  rules 
For  any  man  to  go  : but  as  his  brain 
Began  to  mellow,  “ If  the  king,”  he  said, 

“ Had  given  us  letters,  was  he  bound  to 
speak  ? 

The  king  would  bear  him  out  ” ; and  at  the 
last  — 

The  summer  of  the  vine  in  all  his  veins  — 
“No  doubt  that  we  might  make  it  worth  his 
while. 

She  once  had  past  that  way ; he  heard  her 
speak  ; 

She  scared  him  ; life  ! he  never  saw  the  like  ; 
She  look’d  as  grand  as  doomsday  and  as 
grave  : 

And  he,  he  reverenced  his  liege-lady  there  ; 
He  always  made  a point  to  post  with  mares  ; 
His  daughter  and  his  housemaid  were  the 
boys : 

The  land  he  understood  for  miles  about 
W as  till’d  by  women  ; all  the  swine  were  sows. 
And  all  the  dogs  — ” • 

But  while  he  jested  thus 


A thought  flash’d  thro’  me  which  I cloth’d 
in  act. 

Remembering  how  we  three  presented  Maid 
Or  Nymph,  or  Goddess,  at  high  tide  of  feast, 
In  masque  or  pageant  at  my  father’s  court. 
We  sent  mine  host  to  purchase  female  gear ; 
He  brought  it,  and  himself,  a sight  to  shake 
The  midriff  of  despair  with  laughter,  holp 
To  lace  us  up,  till,  each,  in  maiden  plumes 
We  rustled  ; him  we  gave  a costly  bribe 
To  guerdon  silence,  mounted  our  good  steeds, 
And  boldly  ventured  on  the  liberties. 

We  follow’d  up  the  river  as  we  rode. 

And  rode  till  midnight  when  the  college  lights 
Began  to  glitter  firefly-like  in  copse 
And  linden  alley  : then  we  past  an  arch, 
Whereon  a woman-statue  rose  with  wings 
From  four  wing’d  horses  dark  against  the 
stars ; 

And  some  inscription  ran  along  the  front. 

But  deep  in  shadow  : further  on  we  gain’d 
A little  street  half  garden  and  half  house  ; 
But  scarce  could  hear  each  other  speak  for 
noise 

Of  clocks  and  chimes,  like  silver  hammers 
falling 

On  silver  anvils,  and  the  splash  and  stir 
Of  fountains  spoute'’  »ipand  showering  down 
In  meshes  of  the  jasmine  and  the  rose  : 

And  all  about  us  peal’d  the  nightingale. 

Rapt  in  her  isong,  and  careless  of  the  snare. 

There  sK  ood  a bust  of  Pallas  for  a sign, 

By  two  s^/here  lamps  blazon’d  like  Heaven 
aiad  Earth 

With  cc  nstellation  and  with  continent, 

Abov«  an  entry  ; riding  in,  we  call’d  ; 

A plmup-arm’d  Ostleress  and  a stable  wench 
Camr-  running  at  the  call,  and  help’d  us  down. 
Thei  stept  a buxom  hostess  forth,  and  sail’d, 
F ul]  olown,  before  us  into  rooms  which  gave 
Upofi  a pillar’d  porch,  the  bases  lost 
In  laurel : her  we  ask’d  of  that  and  this. 

And  v;ho  were  tutors.  “Lady  Blanche,”  she 
^aid, 

“ And  Lady  Psyche.”  “ Which  was  prettiest, 
Best-natured  ? ” “ Lady  Psyche.”  “ Hers 

are  we,” 

One  voice,  we  cried ; and  I sat  down  and 
wrote. 

In  such  a hand  as  when  a field  of  corn 
Bows  all  its  ears  before  the  roaring  East : 

“ Three  ladies  of  the  Northern  empire  pray 
Your  Highness  would  enroll  them  with  your 
own. 

As  Lady  Psyche’s  pupils.” 

This  I seal’d : 

The  seal  was  Cupid  bent  above  a scroll. 

And  o’er  his  head  Uranian  Venus  hung. 

And  raised  the  blinaing  bandage  from  his 
eyes : 

I gave  the  letter  to  be  sent  with  dawn  : 

And  then  to  bed,  where  half  in  doze  I seem’d 
To  float  about  a glimmering  night,  and  watch 
A full  sea  glazed  with  muffled  moonlight, swell 
On  some  dark  shore  just  seen  that  it  was  rich. 


84  THE  PRINCESS: 


As  thro’  the  land  at  eve  we  went,  . 

And  pluck’d  the  ripen’d  ears, 

We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 

O we  fell  out  I know  not  why, 

And  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 
We  lost  in  other  years, 

There  above  the  little  grave, 

O there  above  the  little  grave. 

We  kiss’d  again  with  tears. 


II. 

At  break  of  day  the  College  Portress  came  ; 
She  brought  us  Academic  silks,  in  hue 
The  lilac,  with  a silken  hood  to  each. 

And  zoned  with  gold  ; and  now  when  these 
were  on. 

And  we  as  rich  as  moths  from  dusk  cocoons. 
She,  curtseying  her  obeisance,  let  us  know 
The  Princess  Ida  waited  ; out  we  paced, 

I first,  and  following  thro’  the  porch  that  sang 
All  round  with  laurel,  issued  in  a court 
Compact  of  lucid  marbles,  boss’d  with  lengths 
Of  classic  frieze,  with  ample  awnings  gay 
Betwixt  the  pillars,  and  with  great  urns  of 
flow'ers. 

The  Muses  and  the  Graces,  group’d  in  threes, 
Enring’d  a billowing  fountain  in  the  midst ; 
And  here  and  there  on  lattice  edges  lay 
Or  book  or  lute  ; but  hastily  we  past. 

And  up  a flight  of  stairs  into  the  hall. 

There  at  a board  by  tome  and  paper  sat. 
With  tw'O  tame  leopards  couch’d  beside  her 
throne. 

All  beauty  compass’d  in  a female  form. 

The  Princess  ; liker  to  the  inhabitant 
Of  some  clear  planet  close  upon  the  Sun, 
Than  our  man’s  earth ; such  eyes  w'ere  in 
her  head. 

And  so  much  grace  and  power,  breathing 
down 

From  over  her  arch’d  brows,  with  every  tuni 
Lived  thro’  her  to  the  tips  of  her  long  hands, 
And  to  her  feet.  She  rose  her  height,  and 
said : 

“ We  give  you  welcome  : not  without  re- 
dound 

Of  use  and  glory  to  yourselves  ye  come. 

The  first-fruits  of  the  stranger : aftertime. 
And  that  full  voice  which  circles  round  the 
grave. 

Will  rank  you  nobly,  mingled  up  with  me. 
What  ! are  the  ladies  of  your  land  so  tall  ? ” 

“ We  of  the  court,”  said  Cyril.  “ From  the 
court,” 

She  answer’d,  “then  ye  know  the  Prince?” 
and  he  : 

“ The  climax  of  his  age  ! as  tho’  there  were 
One  rose  in  all  the  world,  your  Highness  that. 
He  worships  your  ideal.”  She  replied  : 

“We  scarcely  thought  in  our  own  hall  to 
hear 

This  barren  verbiage,  current  among  men. 


Like  coin,  the  tinsel  clink  of  compliment. 
Your  flight  from  out  your  bookless  wilds 
would  seem 

As  arguing  love  of  knowledge  and  of  power; 
Your  language  proves  you  still  the  child. 
Indeed, 

We  dream  not  of  him  : when  we  set  out  hand 
To  this  great  work,  we  purposed  with  our- 
self 

Never  to  wed.  You  likewise  will  do  w^ell. 
Ladies,  in  entering  here,  to  cast  and  fling 
The  tricks,  which  make  us  toys  of  men,  that  so. 
Some  future  time,  if  so  indeed  you  will. 

You  may  with  those  self-styled  our  lords  ally 
Your  fortunes,  justlier  balanced,  scale  with 
scale.” 

At  those  high  words,  we,  conscious  of  our- 
selves. 

Perused  the  matting ; then  an  officer 
Rose  up,  and  read  the  statutes,  such  as  these  : 
Not  for  three  years  to  correspond  with  home  ; 
Not  for  three  years  to  cross  the  liberties  : 
Not  for  three  years  to  speak  with  any  men  ; 
And  many  more,  which  hastily  subscribed. 
We  enter’d  on  the  boards  : and  “ Now,” 
she  cried, 

“Ye  are  green  wood,  see  ye  warp  not.  Look, 
our  hall  ! 

Our  statues  ! — not  of  those  that  men  desire. 
Sleek  Odalisques,  or  oracles  of  mode. 

Nor  stunted  squaws  of  West  or  East ; but  she 
That  taught  the  Sabine  how  to  rule,  and  she 
The  foundress  of  the  Babylonian  wall. 

The  Carian  Artemisia  strong  in  war. 

The  Rhodope,  that  built  the  pyramid, 

Clelia,  Cornelia,  with  the  Palmyrene 
That  fought  Aurelian,  and  the  Roman  brows 
Of  Agrippina.  Dwell  with  these  and  lose 
Convention,  since  to  look  on  noble  forms 
Makes  noble  thro’  the  sensuous  organism 
That  which  is  higher.  O lift  your  nature* 
up: 

Embrace  our  aims  : work  out  your  freedom. 
Girls, 

Knowledge  is  now  no  more  a fountain  seal’d  : 
Drink  deep,  until  the  habits  of  the  slave. 

The  sins  of  emptiness,  gossip  and  spite 
And  slander,  die.  Better  not  be  at  all 
Than  not  be  noble.  Leave  us  : you  may  go  : 
To-day  the  Lady  Psyche  will  harangue 
The  fresh  arrivals  of  the  week  before  ; 

For  they  press  in  from  all  the  provinces. 

And  fill  the  hive.” 

She  spoke,  and  bowing  waved 
Dismissal : back  again  we  crost  the  court 
To  Lady  Psyche’s  : as  we  enter’d  in. 

There  sat  along  the  forms,  like  morning  doves 
That  sun  their  milky  bosoms  on  the  thatch, 

A patient  range  of  pupils  ; she  herself 
Erect  behind  a desk  of  satin-wood, 

A quick  brunette,  well-moulded,  falcon-eyed. 
And  on  the  hither  side,  or  so  she  look’d, 

Of  twenty  summers.  At  her  left,  a child. 

In  shining  draperies,  headed  like  a star. 

Her  maiden  babe,  a double  April  old, 

Aglaia  slept.  We  sat : the  Lady  glanced  : 
Then  Florian,  but  no  livelier  than  the  dame 


A MEDLEY. 


8S 


That  whisper’d  “Asses’  ears”  among  the 
sedge, 

“ My  sister.”  “ Comely  too  by  all  that ’s 
fair,” 

Said  Cyril.  “ O hush,  hush  ! ” and  she  began. 


“ This  world  was  once  a fluid  haze  of  light. 
Till  toward  the  centre  set  the  starry  tides. 
And  eddied  into  suns,  that  wheeling  cast  * 
The  planets : then  the  nionster,  then  the  man  ; 
Tattoo’d  or  woaded,  winter-clad  in  skins, 
Raw  from  the  prime,  and  crushing  down  his 
mate  ; 

As  yet  we  find  in  barbarous  isles,  and  here 
Among  the  lowest.” 

Thereupon  she-took 
A bird’s-eye  view  of  all  the  ungracious  past , 
Glanced  at  the  legendary  Amazon 
As  emblematic  of  a nobler  age ; 

Appraised  the  Lycian  custom,  spoke  of  those 
That  lay  at  wine  with  Lar  and  Lucumo ; 

Ran  down  the  Persian,  Grecian,  Roman  lines 
Of  empire,  and  the  woman’s  state  in  each. 
How  far  from  just ; till,  warming  with  her 
theme, 

She  fulmined  out  her  scorn  of  laws  Salique 
And  little-footed  China,  touch’d  on  Mahomet 
With  much  contempt,  and  came  to  chiyalry  : 
When  some  respect,  however  slight,  was  paid 
To  woman,  superstition  all  awry  : 

However  then  commenced  the  dawn  ; a beam 
Had  slanted  forward,  falling  in  a land 
Of  promise  ; fruit  would  follow.  Deep,  indeed. 
Their  debt  of  thanks  to  her  who  first  had  dared 
To  leap  the  rotten  pales  of  prejudice, 

Disyoke  their  necks  from  custom,  and  assert 
None  lordlier  than  themselves  but  that  which 
made 

Woman  and  man.  She  had  founded ; they 
must  build. 

Here  might  they  learn  whatever  men  were 
taught : 

Let  them  not  fear : some  said  their  heads 
were  less  : 

Some  men’s  were  small ; not  they  the  least 
of  men  ; 

For  often  fineness  compensated  size  : 

Besides  the  brain  was  like  the  hand,  and  grew 
With  using  ; thence  the  man’s,  if  more,  was 
more  ; 

He  took  advantage  of  his  strength  to  be 
First  in  the  field  : some  ages  had  been  lost ; 
But  woman  ripen’d  earlier,  and  her  life 
Was  longer;  and  albeit  their  glorious  names 
Were  fewer,  scatter’d  stars,  yet  since  in  truth 
The  highest  is  the  measure  of  the  man. 

And  not  the  Kaffir,  Hottentot,  Malay, 

Nor  those  horn-handed  breakers  of  the  glebe. 
But  Homer,  Plato,  Verulam  ; even  so 
With  woman  : and  in  arts  of  government 
Elizabeth  and  others  ; arts  of  war 
The  peasant  Joan  and  others  ; arts  of  grace 
Sappho  and  others  vied  with  any  man  : 

And,  last  not  least,  she  who  had  left  her 
place. 

And  bow’d  her  state  to  them,  that  they  might 
grow 

To  use  and  power  on  this  Oasis,  lapt 


In  the  arms  of  leisure,  sacred  from  the  blight 
Of  ancient  influence  and  scorn.” 

. At  last 

She  rose  upon  a wind  of  prophecy 
Dilating  on  the  future  ; “everywhere 
Two  heads  in  council,  two  beside  the  hearth. 
Two  in  the  tangled  business  of  the  world. 
Two  in  the  liberal  offices  of  life. 

Two  plummets  dropt  for  one  to  sound  the 
abyss 

Of  science,  and  the  secrets  of  the  mind: 
Musician,  painter,  sculptor,  critic,  more  : 
And  everywhere  the  broad  and  bounteous 
Earth 

Should  bear  a double  growth  of  those  rare 
souls, 

Poets,  whose  thoughts  enrich  the  blood  of  the 
world.” 

She  ended  here,  and  beckon’d  us  : the  rest. 
Parted  ; and,  glowing  full-faced  welcome,  she 
Began  to  address  us,  and  was  moving  on 
In  gratulation,  till  as  when  a boat 
Tacks,  and  the  slacken’d  sail  flaps,  all  her 
voice 

Faltering  and  fluttering  in  her  throat,  she 
cried, 

“My  brother!”  “ Well,  my  sister.”  “O,” 
she  said, 

“What  do  you  here?,  and  in  this  dress?  and 
these  ? 

Why  who  are  these  ? a w'olf  within  the  fold  I 
A pack  of  wolves  I the  Lord  be  gracious  to 
me  ! 

A plot,  a plot,  a plot  to  ruin  all ! ” 

“No  plot,  no  plot,”  he  answer’d.  “ Wretch- 
ed boy. 

How  saw  you  not  the  inscription  on  the  gate, 
Let  no  man  enter  in  on  pain  of  death  ?” 
“And  if  I had,”  he  answer’d,  “who  could 
think 

The  softer  Adams  of  your  Academe, 

O sister.  Sirens  tho’  they  be,  were  such 
As  chanted  on  the  blanching  bones  of  men  ? ” 
“ But  you  will  find  it  otherwise,”  she  said. 
“You  jest:  ill  jesting  with  edge-tools!  my 
vow 

Binds  me  to  speak,  and  O that  iron  will. 
That  axelike  edge  unturnable,  our  Head, 
The  Princess.”  “Well  then.  Psyche,  take 
my  life. 

And  nail  me  like  a weasel  on  a grange 
For  warning  : bury  me  beside  the  gate. 

And  cut  this  epitaph  above  my  bones  ; 

Here  lies  a brother  by  a sister  slain., 

All  for  the  coinmon  ^ood  of  ivomankind.'^^ 
“ Let  me  die  too,”  said  Cyril,  “having  seen 
And  heard  the  Lady  Psyche.” 

I struck  in  : 

“Albeit  so  mask’d.  Madam,  T love  the  truth  ; 
Receive  it ; and  in  me  behold  the  Prince 
Your  countryman,  affianced  years  ago 
To  the  Lady  Ida  : here,  for  here  she  was, 
And  thus  (what  other  way  was  left?)  I came.” 
“ O Sir,  O Prince,  I have  no  country  ; none  ; 
If  any,  this;  but  none.  Whate’er  I was 
Disrooted,  what  I am  is  grafted  here. 
Affianced,  Sir?  love-whispers  may  not  breathe 


/ 


86  THE  PRINCESS: 


Within  this  vestal  limit,  and  how  should  I, 
Who  am  not  mine,  say,  live  : the  thunderbolt 
Hangs  silent ; but  prepare  : I speak ; it  falls,” 
“Yet  pause,”  I said:  “for  that  inscription 
there, 

I think  no  more  of  deadly  lurks  therein, 
Than  in  a clapper  clapping  in  a garth. 

To  scare  the  fowl  from  fruit : if  more  there  be, 
If  more  and  acted  on,  what  follows?  war ; 
Your  own  work  marr’d : for  this  your  Ac- 
ademe, 

Whichever  side  be  Victor,  in  the  halloo 
Will  topple  to  the  trumpet  down,  and  pass 
With  all  fair  theories  only  made  to  gild 
A stormless  summer.”  “ Let  the  Princess 
judge 

Of  that,”  she  said  : “farewell,  Sir  — and  to 
you. 

T shudder  at  the  sequel,  but  I go.” 

“ Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,”  I rejoin’d, 

“ The  fifth  in  line  from  that  old  Florian, 

Yet  hangs  his  portrait  in  my  father’s  hall 
(The  gaunt  old  Baron  with  his  beetle  brow 
Sun-shaded  in  the  heat  of  dusty  fights) 

As  he  bestrode  my  Grandsire,  when  he  fell. 
And  all  else  fled : we  point  to  it,  and  we 
say. 

The  loyal  warmth  of  Florian  is  not  cold. 

But  branches  current  yet  in  kindred  veins.” 

“ Are  you  that  Psyche,”  Florian  added,  “ she 
With  whom  I sang  about  the  morning  hills, 
Flung  ball,  flew  kite,  and  raced  the  purple 

fly, 

And  snared  the  squirrel  of  the  glen  ? are  you 
That  Psyche,  wont  to  bind  my  throbbing 
brow, 

To  smooth  my  pillow,  mix  the  foaming 
draught 

Of  fever,  tell  me  pleasant  tales,  and  read 
My  sickness  down  to  happy  drearns?  are  you 
That  brother-sister  Psyche,  both  in  one? 
You  were  that  Psyche,  but  what  are  you 
now?” 

“You  "are  that  Psyche,”  Cyril  said,  “for 
whom 

I would  be  that  forever  which  I seem. 
Woman,  if  I might  sit  beside  your  feet, 

And  glean  your  scatter’d  sapience.” 

Then  once  more, 

“Are  you  that  Lady  Psyche,”  I began, 

“ That  on  her  bridal  morn  before  she  past 
From  all  her  old  companions,  when  the  king 
Kiss’d  her  pale  cheek,  declared  that  ancient 
ties 

Would  still  be  dear  beyond  the  southern 
hills  ; 

That  were  there  any  of  our  people  there 
In  want  or  peril,  there  was  one  to  hear 
And  help  them  : look  ! for  such  are  these 
and  1.” 

“Are  you  that  Psyche,”  Florian  ask’d,  “to 
whom, 

In  gentler  days,  your  arrow-wounded  fawn 
Came  flying  while  you  sat  beside  the  well  ? 
The  creature  laid  his  muzzle  on  your  lap. 
And  sobb’d,  and  you  sobb’d  with  it,  and  the 
blood 


Was  sprinkled  on  your  kirtle,  and  you  wept. 
That  was  fawn’s  blood,  not  brother’s,  yet  you 
wept- 

O by  the  bright  head  of  my  little  niece. 

You  were  that  Psyche,  and  what  are  you 
now?  ” 

“ You  are  that  Psyche,”  Cyril  said  again, 

“ The  mother  of  the  sweetest  little  maid. 
That  ever  crow’d  for  kisses.” 

“ Out  upon  it  ! ” 
She  answer’d,  “ peace  ! and  why  should  I not 
play 

The  Spartan  Mother  with  emotion,  be 
The  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  of  my  kind? 

Him  you  call  great  : he  for  the  common  weal. 
The  fading  politics  of  mortal  Rome, 

As  I might  slay  this  child,  if  good  need  were. 
Slew  both  his  sons  : and  I,  shall  I,  on  whom 
The  secular  emancipation  turns 
Of  half  this  world,  be  swerved  from  right  to 
save 

A prince,  a brother  ? a little  will  I yield. 

Best  so,  perchance,  for  us,  and  well  for  you. 
O hard,  when  love  and  duty  clash  ! I fear 
My  conscience  will  not  count  me  fleckless ; 
yet  — 

Hear  my  conditions  : promise  (otherwise 
You  perish)  as  you  came  to  slip  away. 
To-day,  to-moiTow,  soon  : it  shall  be  said, 
These  women  were  too  barbarous,  would  not 
learn ; 

They  fled,  who  might  have  shamed  us : 
promise,  all.” 

What  could  we  else,  we  promised  each ; 
and  she, 

Like  some  wild  creature  newly  caged,  com- 
menced 

A to-and-fro,  so  pacing  till  she  paused 
By  Florian  ; holding  out  her  lily  arms 
Took  both  his  hands,  and  smiling  faintly  said : 
“ I knew  you  at  the  first ; tho’  you  have  grovn 
You  scarce  have  alter’d  : 1 am  sad  and  glad 
To  see  you,  Florian.  / give  thee  to  death. 
My  brother  ! it  was  duty  spoke,  not  1. 

My  needful  seeming  harshness,  pardon  it. 
Our  mother,  is  she  well?” 

With  that  she  kiss’d 

His  forehead,  then,  a moment  after,  clung 
About  him,  and  betwixt  them  blossom’d  up 
From  out  a common  vein  of  memory 
Sweet  household  talk,  and  phrases  of  the 
hearth. 

And  far  allusion,  till  the  gracious  dews 
Began  to  glisten  and  to  fall  : and  while 
They  stood,  so  rapt,  we  gazing,  came  a voice, 
“ I brought  a message  here  from  Lady 
Blanche.” 

Back  started  she,  and  turning  round  we  saw 
The  Lady  Blanche’s  daughter  where  sh^ 
stood, 

Melissa,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock. 

A rosy  blonde,  and  in  a college  gown. 

That  clad  her  like  an  April  daffodilly 
(Her  mother’s  color)  with  her  lips  apart, 

And  all  her  thoughts  as  fair  within  her  eyes, 
As  bottom  agates  seen  to  wave  and  float 
In  crystal  currents  of  clear  morning  seas. 


A MEDLEY. 


87 


So  stood  that  same  fair  creature  at  the  door. 
Then  Lady  Psyche,  “ Ah — Melissa  — you  ! 
You  heard  us?”  and  Melissa,  “O  pardon 
me  ! 

I heard,  I could  not  help  it,  did  not  wish  : 
But,  dearest  Lady,  pray  you  fear  me  not, 

Nor  think  I bear  that  heart  within  my  breast, 
To  give  three  gallant  gentlemen  to  death.” 

“ I trust  you,”  said  the  other,  “for  we  two 
Were  always  friends,  none  closer,  elm  and 
vine  : 

But  yet  your  mother’s  jealous  temperament  — 
Let  not  your  prudence,  dearest,  drowse,  or 
prove 

The  Danaid  of  a leaky  vase,  for  fear 
This  whole  foundation  ruin,  and  I lose 
My  honor,  these  their  lives.”  “ Ah,  fear  me 
not,” 

Replied  Melissa;  “no — I would  not  tell. 
No,  not  for  all  Aspasia’s  cleverness, 

No,  not  to  answer.  Madam,  all  those  hard 
things 

That  Sheba  came  to  ask  of  Solomon.” 

“ Be  it  so,”  the  other,  “ that  we  still  may  lead 
The  new  light  up,  and  culminate  in  peace. 
For  Solomon  may  come  to  Sheba  yet.” 

Said  Cyril,  “ Madam,  he  the  wisest  man 
Feasted  the  woman  wisest  then,  in  halls 
Of  Lebanonian  cedar  : nor  should  you 
(Tho’  Madam  you  should  answer,  we  would 
ask) 

Less  welcome  find  among  us,  if  you  came 
Among  us,  debtors  for  our  lives  to  you, 
Myself  for  something  more.”  He  said  not 
what. 

But  “ Thanks,”  she  answer’d,  “ go  ; we  have 
been  too  long 

Together  ; keep  your  hoods  about  the  face  ; 
They  do  so  that  affect  abstraction  here. 

Speak  little  ; mix  not  with  the  rest ; and 
hold 

Your  promise  : all,  I trust,  may  yet  be  well.” 

We  turn’d  to  go,  but  Cyril  took  the  child, 
And  held  her  round  the  knees  against  his 
waist, 

And  blew  the  swoll’n  cheek  of  a trumpeter, 
While  Psyche  watch’d  them,  smiling,  and 
the  child 

Push’d  her  flat  hand  against  his  face  and 
laugh’d  ; 

And  thus  our  conference  closed. 

And  then  we  strolled 
For  half  the  day  thro’  stately  theatres 
Bench’d  crescent-wise.  In  each  we  sat,  we 
heard 

The  grave  Professor.  On  the  lecture  slate 
The  circle  rounded  under  female  hands 
With  flawless  demonstration  ; follow’d  then 
A classic  lecture,  rich  in  sentiment. 

With  scraps  of  thunderous  Epic  lilted  out 
By  violet-hooded  Doctors,  elegies 
And  quoted  odes,  and  jewels  five-words-long 
That  on  the  stretch’d  forefinger  of  all  Time 
Sparkle  forever ; then  we  dipt  in  all 
That  treats  of  whatsoever  is,  the  state. 

The  total  chronicles  of  man,  the  mind, 

The  morals,  something  of  the  frame,  the  rock. 


The  star,  the  bird,  the  fish,  the  shell,  the 
flower, 

Electric,  chemic  laws,  and  all  the  rest. 

And  whatsoever  can  be  taught  and  known  ; 
Till  like  three  horses  that  have  broken 
fence, 

And  glutted  all  nightlong  breast-deep  in  corn, 
We  issued  gorged  with  knowledge,  and  I 
spoke : 

“Why,  Sirs,  they  do  all  this  as  well  as  we.” 
“They  hunt  old  trails,”  said  Cyril,  “very 
well  ; 

But  when  did  woman  ever  yet  invent  ?” 

“ Ungracious  !”  answer’d  Florian,  “ have  you 
learnt 

No  more  from  Psyche’s  lecture,  you  that 
talk’d 

The  trash  that  made  me  sick,  and  almost 
sad  ? ” 

“ O trash,”  he  said,  “ but  with  a kernel  in  it. 
Should  I not  call  her  wise,  who  made  me 
wise  ? 

And  learnt  ? I learnt  more  from  her  in  a flash, 
Than  if  my  brainpan  were  an  empty  hull, 
And  every  Muse  tumbled  a science  in. 

A thousand  hearts  lie  fallow  in  these  halls. 
And  round  these  halls  a thousand  baby  ioves 
Fly  twanging  headless  arrows  at  the  hearts. 
Whence  follows  many  a vacant  pang  ; but  O 
With  me.  Sir,  enter’d  in  the  bigger  boy, 

The  Head  of  all  the  golden-shafted  firm. 

The  long-limb’d  lad  that  had  a Psyche  too  ; 
He  cleft  me  thro’  the  stomacher  ; and  now 
What  think  you  of  it,  Florian  ? do  I chase 
The  substance  or  the  shadow  ? will  it  hold  ? 

I have  no  sorcerer’s  malison  on  me. 

No  ghostly  hauntings  like  his  Highness.  I 
Flatter  myself  that  always  everywhere 
I know  the  substance  when  I see  it.  Well, 
Are  castles  shadows?  Three  of  them?  Is 
she 

The  sweet  proprietress  a shadow?  If  not, 
Shall  those  three  castles  patch  my  tatter’d 
coat? 

For  dear  are  those  three  castles  to  my  wants. 
And  dear  is  sister  Psyche  to  my  heart, 

And  two  dear  things  are  one  of  double  worth. 
And  much  I might  have  said,  but  that  my 
zone 

Unmann’d  me : then  the  Doctors  ! O to 
hear 

The  Doctors  ! O to  watch  the  thirsty  plants 
Imbibing  ! once  or  twice  I thought  to  roar. 
To  break  my  chain,  to  shake  my  mane  : but 
thou. 

Modulate  me.  Soul  of  mincing  mimicry  ! 
Make  liquid  treble  of  that  bassoon,  my 
throat ; 

Abase  those  eyes  that  ever  loved  to  meet 
Star-sisters  answering  under  crescent  brows  ; 
Abate  the  stride,  which  speaks  of  man,  and 
loose 

A flying  charm  of  blushes  o’er  this  cheek, 
Where 'they  like  swallows  coming  out  of 
time 

Will  wonder  why  they  came ; but  hark  the 
bell 

For  dinner,  let  us  go  I ” 


88  THE  PRINCESS  i 


And  in  we  stream’d 

Among  the  columns,  pacing  staid  and  still 
By  twos  and  threes,  till  all  from  end  to  end 
With  beauties  every  shade  of  brown  and 
fair. 

In  colors  gayer  than  the  morning  mist. 

The  long  hall  glitter’d  like  a bed  of  flowers. 
How  might  a man  not  wander  from  his  wits 
Pierced  thro’  with  eyes,  but  that  I kept  mine 
own 

Intent  on  her,  who  rapt  in  glorious  dreams. 
The  second-sight  of  some  Astr$an  age, 

Sat  compass’d  with  professors ; they,  the 
while. 

Discuss’d  a doubt  and  tost  it  to  and  fro  : 

A clamor  thicken’d,  mixt  with  inmost  terms 
Of  art  and  science  : Lady  Blanche  alone 
Of  faded  form  and  haughtiest  lineaments. 
With  all  her  Autumn  tresses  falsely  brown, 

! Shot  sidelong  daggers  at  us,  a tiger-cat 
, In  act  to  spring. 

At  last  a solemn  grace 

Concluded,  and  we  sought  the  gardens  : there 
One  walk’d  reciting  by  herself,  and  one 
i In  this  hand  held  a volume  as  to  read, 

! And  smoothed  a petted  peacock  down  with 
that  : 

Some  to  a low  song  oar’d  a shallop  by, 

Or  under  arches  of  the  marble  bridge 
I Hung,  shadow’d  from  the  heat;  some  hid 
I and  sought 

; In  the  orange  thickets ; others  tost  a ball 
: Above  the  fountain -jets,  and  back  again 
; With  laughter:  others  lay  about  the  lawns, 

: Of  the  older  sort,  and  murmur’d  that  their 
! May 

Was  passing : what  was  learning  unto  them  ? 
They  wish’d  to  marry;  they  could  rule  a j 
house ; 

Men  hated  learned  women  : but  we  three 
; Sat  muffled  like  the  Fates ; and  often  came 
Melissa  hitting  all  we  saw  with  shafts 
Of  gentle  satire,  kin  to  charity. 

That  harm’d  not : then  day  droopt ; the 
chapel  bells 

Call’d  us ; we  left  the  walks ; we  mixt  with 
those 

Six  hundred  maidens  clad  in  purest  white. 
Before  two  streams  of  light  from  wall  to  wall. 
While  the  great  organ  almost  burst  his  pipes. 
Groaning  for  power,  and  rolling  thro’  the 
court 

A long  melodious  thunder  to  the  sound 
Of  solemn  psalms,  and  silver  litanies. 

The  work  of  Ida,  to  call  down  from  Heaven 
A blessing  on  her  labors  for  the  world. 


Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea. 

Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea  ! 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go. 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow. 

Blow  him  again  to  me  ; 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 


Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Rest,  rest,  on  mother’s  breast. 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon  ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  %ails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon  : 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one, 
sleep. 


III. 

Morn  in  the  white  wake  of  the  morning 
star 

Came  furrowing  all  the  orient  into  gold. 

We  rose,  and  each  by  other  drest  with  care 
Descended  to  the  court  that  lay  three  parts 
In  shadow,  but  the  Muses’  heads  were 
touch’d 

Above  the  darkness  from  their  native  East. 

There  while  we  stood  beside  the  fount, 
and  watch’d 

Or  seem’d  to  watch  the  dancing  bubble, 
approach’d 

Melissa,  tinged  with  wan  from  lack  of  sleep. 
Or  grief,  and  glowing  round  her  dewy  eyes 
The  circled  Iris  of  a night  of  tears; 

“ And  fly,”  she  cried,  “ O fly,  while  yet  you 
may ! 

My  mother  knows  ” : and  when  I ask’d  her 
“ how,” 

“ My  fault,”  she  wept,  “ my  fault ! and  yet 
not  mine ; 

Yet  mine  in  part,  O hear  me,  pardon  me. 
My  mother,’  t is  her  wont  from  night  to  night 
To  rail  at  Lady  Psyche  and  her  side. 

She  says  the  Princess  should  have  been  the 
Head, 

Herself  and  Lady  Psyche  the  two  arras  ; 

And  so  it  was  agreed  when  first  they  came  ; 
But  Lady  Psyche  was  the  right  hand  now, 
And  she  the  left,  or  not,  or  seldom  used  ; 
Hers  more  than  half  the  students,  all  the 
love. 

And  so  last  night  she  fell  to  canvass  you  ; 
'"'‘Her  countrywomen!  she  did  not  envy 
her. 

Who  ever  saw  such  wild  barbarians  ? 

Girls?  — more  like  men ! ” and  at  these  words 
the  snake. 

My  secret,  seem’d  to  stir  within  my  breast ; 
And  O,  Sirs,  could  I help  it,  but  my  cheek 
Began  to  burn  and  burn,  and  her  lynx  eye 
To  fix  and  make  me  hotter,  till  she  laugh’d  : 
“ O marvellously  modest  maiden,  you  I 
Men  I girls,  like  men  ! why,  if  they  had  been 
men 

You  need  not  set  your  thoughts  in  rubric 
thus 

For  wholesale  comment.”  Pardon,  I am 
shamed 

That  I must  needs  repeat  for  my  excuse 
What  looks  so  little  graceful ; “ men  ” (for 
still 

My  mother  went  revolving  on  the  word) 

“ And  so  they  are,  — very  like  men  indeed  — 


A MEDLEY.  89 


And  with  that  woman  closeted  for  hours  ! ” 
Then  came  these  dreadful  words  out  one  by 
one, 

“ Why  — these  — are  — men  ” : I shudder’d  : 
“ and  you  know  it.” 

“O  ask  me  nothing,”  I said:  “And  she 
knows  too. 

And  she  conceals  it.”  So  my  mother  clutch’d 
The  truth  at  once,  but  with  no  word  from  me  ; 
And  now  thus  early  risen  she  goes  to  inform 
The  Princess : Lady  Psyche  will  be  crush'd  ; 
But  you  may  yet  be  saved,  and  therefore  fly ; 
But  heal  me  with  your  pardon  ere  you  go.” 

“What  pardon,  sweet  Melissa,  for  a 
blush?” 

Said  Cyril : “ Pale  one,  blush  again  : than 
wear 

Those  lilies,  better  blush  our  lives  away. 

Yet  let  us  breathe  for  one  hour  more  in 
Heaven,” 

He  added,  “ lest  some  classic  Angel  speak 
In  scorn  of  us,  ‘ they  mounted,  Ganymedes, 
To  tumble,  Vulcans,  on  the  second  morn.’ 
But  I will  melt  this  marble  into  wax 
To  yield  us  farther  furlough  ” : and  he  went. 

Melissa  shook  her  doubtful  curls,  and 
thought 

He  scarce  would  prosper.  “ Tell  us,”  Florian 
ask’d, 

“ How  grew  this  feud  betwixt  the  right  and 
left.” 

“O  long  ago,”  she  said,  “betwixt  these  two 
Division  smoulders  hidden  : ’t  is  my  mother, 
Too  jealous,  often  fretful  as  the  wind 
Pent  in  a crevice  : much  I bear  with  her  : 

I never  knew  my  father,  but  she  says 
(God  help  her)  she  was  wedded  to  a fool ; 
And  still  she  rail’d  against  the  state  of  things. 
She  had  the  care  of  Lady  Ida’s  youth. 

And  from  the  Queen’s  decease  she  brought 
her  up. 

But  when  your  sister  came  she  won  the  heart 
Of  Ida  : they  were  still  together,  grew 
(For  so  they  said  themselves)  inosculated  ; 
Consonant  chords  that  shiver  to  one  note  ; 
One  mind  in  all  things  : yet  my  mother  still 
Affirms  your  Psyche  thieved  her  theories. 
And  angled  with  them  for  her  pupil’s  love  : 
She  calls  her  plagiarist ; I know  not  what  : 
But  I must  go  : I dare  not  tarry,”  and  light. 
As  flies  the  shadow  of  a bird,  she  fled. 

Then  murmur’d  Florian,  gazing  after  her : 
“An  open-hearted  maiden,  true  and  pure. 

If  I could  love,  why  this  were  she  : how 
pretty 

Her  blushing  was,  and  how  she  blush’d  again. 
As  if  to  close  with  Cyril’s  random  wish  : 

Not  like  your  Princess  cramm’d  with  erring 
pride, 

Nor  like  poor  Psyche  whom  she  drags  in  tow.” 

“ The  crane,”  I said,  “ may  chatter  of  the 
crane. 

The  dove  may  murmur  of  the  dove,  but  I 
An  eagle  clang  an  eagle  to  the  sphere. 


My  princess,  O my  princess  ! true  she  errs. 
But  in  her  own  grand  way  ; being  herself 
Three  times  more  noble  than  three-score  of 
men. 

She  sees  herself  in  every  woman  else. 

And  so  she  wears  her  error  like  a crowm 
To  blind  the  truth  and  me  : for  her,  and  her, 
Hebes  are  they  to  hand  ambrosia,  mix 
The  nectar;  but  — ah  she  — whene’er  she 
moves  . 

The  Samian  Her^  rises  and  she  speaks 
A Memnon  smitten  with  the  morning  Sun.” 

So  saying,  from  the  court  we  paced,  and 
gain’d 

The  terrace  ranged  along  the  Northern  front. 
And  leaning  there  on  those  balusters,  high 
Above  the  empurpled  champaign,  drank  the 
gale 

That  blown  about  the  foliage  underneath, 
And  sated  with  the  innumerable  rose. 

Beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids.  Hither  came 
Cyril,  and  yawning  “ O hard  task,”  he  cried  : 
“No  fighting  shadows  here  ! I forced  a way 
Thro’  solid  opposition  crabb’d  and  gnarl’d. 
Better  to  clear  prime  forests,  heave  and  thump 
A league  of  street  in  summer  solstice  down. 
Than  hammer  at  this  reverend  gentlewoman. 
I knock’d  and,  bidden,  enter’d ; found  her 
there 

At  point  to  move,  and  settled  in  her  eyes 
The  green  malignant  light  of  coming  storm. 
Sir,  I was  courteous,  every  phrase  well-oil’d, 
Asman’scould  be ; yet  maiden-meek  I pray’d 
Concealment : she  demanded  who  we  were. 
And  why  we  came  ? I fabled  nothing  fair. 
But,  your  example  pilot,  told  her  all. 

Up  went  the  hush’d  amaze  of  hand  and 
eye. 

But  when  I dwelt  upon  your  old  affiance, 

She  answer’d  sharply  that  I talk’d  astray. 

I urged  the  fierce  inscription  on  the  gate. 
And  our  three  lives.  True  — we  had  limed 
ourselves. 

With  open  eyes,  and  we  must  take  the  chance. 
But  such  extremes,  I told  her,  well  might 
harm 

The  woman’s  cause.  “ Not  more  than  now,” 
she  said, 

“ So  puddled  as  it  is  with  favoritism.” 

I tried  the  mother’s  heart.  Shame  might 
befall' 

Melissa,  knowing,  saying  not  she  knew  : 

Her  answer  was,  “ Leave  me  to  deal  with 
that.” 

I spoke  of  war  to  come  and  many  deaths. 
And  she  replied,  her  duty  was  to  speak. 

And  duty  duty,  clear  of  consequences. 

I grew  discouraged.  Sir,  but  since  I knew 
No  rock  so  hard  but  that  a little  wave 
May  beat  admission  in  a thousand  years, 

I recommenced  ; “ Decide  not  ere  you  pause. 
I find  you  here  but  in  the  second  place 
Some  say  the  third  — the  authentic  foundress 
you. 

I offer  boldly  : we  will  seat  you  highest : 
Wink  at  our  advent : help  my  prince  to  gain 
His  rightful  bride,  and  here  I promise  you 


THE  PRINCESS: 


go 

Some  palace  in  our  land,  where  you  shall 
reign 

The  head  and  heart  of  all  our  fair  she-world, 
And  your  great  name  flow  on  with  broaden- 
ing time 

Forever.”  Well,  she  balanced  this  a little, 
And  told  me  she  would  answer  us  to-day. 
Meantime  be  mute  ; thus  much,  nor  more  I 
gain’d.” 

He  ceasing,  came  a message  from  the  Head. 
“ That  afternoon  the  Princess  rode  to  take 
The  dip  of  certain  strata  to  the  North. 
Would  we  go  with  her?  we  should  find  the 
land 

Worth  seeing  ; and  the  river  made  a fall 
Out  yonder  ” ; then  she  pointed  onto  where 
A double  hill  ran  up  his  furrowy  forks 
Beyond  the  thick-leaved  platans  of  the  vale. 

Agreed  to,  this,  the  day  fled  on  thro’  all 
Its  range  of  duties  to  the  appointed  hour. 
Then  summon’d  to  the  porch  we  went.  She 
stood 

Among  her  maidens,  higher  by  the  head, 
Her  back  against  a pillar,  her  foot  on  one 
Of  those  tame  leopards.  Kittenlike  he  roll’d 
And  paw’d  about  her  sandal.  I drew  near  : 
1 gazed.  On  a sudden  my  strange  seizure 
came 

Upon  me,  the  weird  vision  of  our  house  : 
The  Princess  Ida  seem’d  a hollow  show, 

Her  gay-furr’d  cats  a painted  fantasy. 

Her  college  and  her  maidens,  empty  masks. 
And  I myself  the  shadow  of  a dream, 

For  all  things  were  and  were  not.  Yet  I felt 
My  heart  beat  thick  with  passion  and  with 
awe  ; 

Then  from  my  breast  the  involuntary  sigh 
Brake,  as  she  smote  me  with  the  light  of 
eyes 

That  lent  my  knee  desire  to  kneel,  and  shook 
My  pulses,  till  to  horse  we  got,  and  so 
Went  forth  in  long  retinue  following  up 
The  river  as  it  narrow’d  to  the  hills. 

I rode  beside  her  and  to  me  she  said  : 

“O  friend,  we  trust  that  you  esteem’d  us  not 
Too  harsh  to  your  companion  yester-morn  ; 
Unwillingly  we  spake.”  “ No  — not  to  her,” 
I answer’d,  “ but  to  one  of  whom  we  spake 
Your  Highness  might  have  seem’d  the  thing 
you  say.” 

“Again?”  she  cried,  “are  you  ambassa- 
dresses 

From  him  to  me  ? we  give  you,  being  strange, 
A license  : speak,  and  let  the  topic  die.” 

I stammer’d  that  I knew  him  — could  have 
wish’d  — 

“ Our  king  expects  — was  there  no  precon- 
tract? 

There  is'  no  truer-hearted  — ah,  you  seem 
All  he  prefigured,  and  he  could  not  see 
The  bird  of  passage  flying  south  but  long’d 
To  follow:  surely,  if  your  Highness  keep 
Your  purport,  you  will  shock  him  ev’n  to 
death. 

Or  baser  courses,  children  of  despair.” 


“Poor  boy,” she  said,  “can  he  not  read 
— no  books  ? 

Quoit,  tennis,  ball  — no  games?  nor  deals  in 
that  ' 

Which  men  delight  in,  martial  exercise  ? 

To  nurse  a blind  ideal  like  a girl, 

Methinks  he  seems  no  better  than  a girl ; 

As  girls  were  once,  as  we  ourself  have 
been  : 

We  had  our  dreams  ; perhaps  he  mixt  with 
them: 

We  touch  on  our  dead  self,  nor  shun  to  do  it. 
Being  other  — since  we  learnt  our  meaning 
here. 

To  lift  the  woman’s  fall’n  divinity. 

Upon  an  even  pedestal  with  man.” 

She  paused,  and  added  with  a haughtier 
smile  : 

“ And  as  to  precontracts,  we  move,  my 
friend, 

At  no  man’s  beck,  but  know  ourself  and 
thee, 

0 Vashti,  noble  Vashti  ! Summon’d  out 
She  kept  her  state,  and  left  tlie  drunken  king 
To  brawl  at  Shushan  underneath  the  palms.” 

“ Alas  your  Highness  breathes  full  East,” 
I said, 

“ On  that  which  leans  to  you.  I know  the 
Prince, 

1 prize  his  truth  : and  then  how  vast  a work 
To  assail  this  gray  pre-eminence  of  man  ! 
You  grant  me  license  ; might  I use  it?  think, 
Ere  half  be  done  perchance  your  life  may 

fail  ; 

Then  comes  the  feebler  heiress  of  your  plan. 
And  takes  and  ruins  all  ; and  thus  your  pains 
May  only  make  that  footprint  upon  sand 
Which  old-recurring  waves  of  prejudice 
Resmooth  to  nothing  : might  I dread  that 
you. 

With  only  Fame  for  spouse  and  your  great 
deeds 

For  issue,  yet  may  live  in  vain,  and  miss, 
Meanwhile,  what  every  woman  counts  her 
due, 

Love,  children,  happiness?” 

And  she  exclaim’d, 
“ Peace,  you  young  savage  of  the  Northern 
wild  ! 

What  ! tho’  your  Prince’s  love  w'ere  like  a 
God’s, 

Have  we  not  made  ourself  the  sacrifice? 

You  are  bold  indeed : we  are  not  talk’d  to 
thus : 

Yet  will  we  say  for  children,  would  they  grew 
Like  field-flowers  everywhere  ! we  like  them 
well : 

But  children  die  ; and  let  me  tell  you,  girl. 
Howe’er  you  babble,  great  deeds  cannot  die  : 
They  with  the  sun  and  moon  renew  their 
light 

Forever,  blessing  those  that  look  on  them. 
Children  — that  men  may  pluck  them  from 
our  hearts. 

Kill  us  with  pity,  break  us  with  ourselves  — 
O — children  — there  is  nothing  upon  earth 


A MEDLEY. 


More  miserable  than  she  that  has  a son 
And  sees  him  err  : nor  would  we  work  for 
fame  ; 

Tho’  she  perhaps  might  reap  the  applause  of 
Great, 

Who  learns  the  one  pou  sto  whence  after- 
hands 

May  move  the  world,  tho’  she  herself  effect 
But  little  : wherefore  up  and  act,  nor  shrink 
For  fear  our  solid  aim  be  dissipated 
By  frail  successors.  Would,  indeed,  we  had 
been. 

In  lieu  of  many  mortal  flies,  a race 
Of  giants  living,  each,  a thousand  years. 

That  we  might  see  our  own  work  out,  and 
watch 

The  sandy  footprint  harden  into  stone.” 

I answer’d  nothing,  doubtful  in  myself 
If  that  strange  Poet-princess  with  her  grand 
Imaginations  might  at  all  be  won. 

And  she  broke  out  interpreting^my  thoughts  : 

“No  doubt  we  seem  a kind  of  monster  to 
you  ; 

We  are  used  to  that : for  women,  up  till  this 
Cramp’d  under  worse  than  South-sea-isle 
taboo. 

Dwarfs  of  the  gynaeceum,  fail  so  far 
In  high  desire,  they  know  not,  cannot  guess 
How  much  their  welfare  is  a passion  to  us. 

If  we  could  give  them  surer,  quicker  proof — 
O if  our  end  were  less  achievable 
By  slow  approaches,  than  by  single  act 
Of  immolation,  any  phase  of  death. 

We  were  as  prompt  to  spring  against  the 
pikes. 

Or  down  the  fiery  gulf  as  talk  of  it. 

To  compass  our  dear  sisters’  liberties.” 

She  bow’d  as  if  to  veil  a noble  tear  ; 

And  up  we  came  to  where  the  river  sloped 
To  plunge  in  cataract,  shattering  on  black 
blocks 

A breath  of  thunder.  O’er  it  shook  the  woods, 
And  danced  the  color,  and,  below,  stuck  out 
The  bones  of  some  vast  bulk  that  lived  and 
roar’d 

Before  man  was.  She  gazed  awhile  and  said, 

“ As  these  rude  bones  to  ns,  are  we  to  her 
That  will  be.”  “ Dare  we  dream  of  that,”  I 
ask’d, 

“ Which  wrought  us,  as  the  workman  and  his 
work, 

That  practice  betters  ? ” “ How,”  she  cried, 
“ you  love 

The  metaphysics  ! read  and  earn  our  prize, 

A golden  broach  : beneath  an  emerald  plane 
Sits  Diotima,  teaching  him  that  died 
Of  hemlock  ; our  device  ; wrought  to  the  life  ; 
She  rapt  upon  her  subject,  he  on  her : 

For  there  are  schools  for  all.”  “ And  yet,”  I 
said, 

“ Methinks  I have  not  found  among  them 
all 

One  anatomic.”  “ Nay,  we  thought  of  that,” 
She  answer’d,  “but  it  pleased  us  not:  in  truth 


91 

We  shudder  but  to  dream  our  maids  should 
ape 

Those  monstrous  males  that  carve  the  living 
hound. 

And  cram  him  with  the  fragments  of  the 
grave. 

Or  in  the  dark  dissolving  human  heart, 

And  holy  secrets  of  this  microcosm, 
Dabbling  a shameless  hand  with  shameful 
jest, 

Encarnalize  their  spirits  : yet  we  know 
Knowledge  is  knowledge,  and  this  matter 
hangs : 

Howbeit  ourself,  foreseeing  casualty. 

Nor  willing  men  should  come  among  us, 
learnt. 

For  many  weary  moons  before  we  came. 
This  craft  of  healing.  Were  you  sick,  our- 
self 

Would  tend  upon  you.  To  your  question 
now. 

Which  touches  on  the  workman  and  his  work. 
Let  there  be  light  and  there  was  light : ’t  is  so; 
For  was,  and  is,  and  will  be,  are  but  is ; 

And  all  creation  is  one  act  at  once. 

The  birth  of  light  : but  we  that  are  not  all. 
As  p.irts,  can  see  but  parts,  now  this,  now 
that. 

And  live,  perforce,  from  thought  to  thought, 
and  make 

One  act  a phantom  of  succession  : thus 
Our  weakness  somehow  shapes  the  shadow. 
Time ; 

But  in  the  shadow  will  we  work,  and  mould 
The  woman  to  the  fuller  day.” 

She  spake 

With  kindled  eyes  : we  rode  a league  beyond, 
And,  o’er  a bridge  of  pinewood  crossing,  came 
On  flowery  levels  underneath  the  crag, 

Full  of  all  beauty.  “O  how  sweet,”  I said, 
(For  I was  half-oblivious  of  my  mask,) 

“ To  lins:er  here  with  one  that  loved  us.” 
“Yea,” 

She  answer’d,  “ or  with  fair  philosophies 
That  lift  the  fancy  ; for  indeed  these  fields 
Are  lovely,  lovelier  not  the  Elysian  lawns, 
Where  paced  the  Demigods  of  old,  and  saw 
The  soft  white  vapor  streak  the  crowned 
towers 

Built  to  the  Sun  ” : then,  turning  to  her 
maids, 

“ Pitch  our  pavilion  here  upon  the  sward  ; 
Lay  out  the  viands.”  At  the  word,  they  raised 
A tent  of  satin,  elaborately  wrought 
With  fair  Corinna’s  triumph  ; here  she  stood. 
Engirt  with  many  a florid  maiden-cheek. 

The  woman-conquieror  : woman-conquer’d 
there 

The  bearded  Victor  of  ten-thou.sand  hymns, 
And  all  the  men  mourn’d  at  his  side  : but  we 
Set  forth  to  climb  ; then,  climbing,  Cyril  kept 
With  Psyche,  with  Melissa  Florian,  I 
With  mine  affianced.  Many  a little  hand 
Glanced  like  a touch  of  sunshine  on  the  rocks, 
Many  a light  foot  shone  like  a jewel  set 
In  the  dark  crag  : and  then  we  turn’d,  we 
wound 

About  the  cliffs,  the  copses,  out  and  in, 


92  THE  PRINCESS  : 


Hammering  and  clinking,  chattering  stony 
names 

Of  shale  and  hornblende,  rag  and  trap  and 
tuff, 

Amygdaloid  and  trachyte,  till  the  Sun 
Grew  broader  toward  his  death  and  fell,  and 
all 

The  rosy  heights  came  out  above  the  lawns. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story: 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle  ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O hark,  O hear  ! how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

O sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle  ; answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul. 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 


IV. 

“There  sinks  the  nebulous  star  we  call  the 
Sun, 

If  that  hypothesis  of  theirs  be  sound,” 

Said  Ida ; “let  us  down  and  rest  ” : and  we 
Down  from  the  lean  and  wrinkled  precipices, 
By  every  coppice-feather’d  chasm  and  cleft, 
Dropt  thro’  the  ambrosial  gloom  to  where 
below 

No  bigger  than  a glow-worm  shone  the  tent 
Lamp-lit  from  the  inner.  Once  she  lean’d 
on  me. 

Descending  ; once  or  twice  she  lent  her  hand. 
And  blissful  palpitations  in  the  blood. 
Stirring  a sudden  transport  rose  and  fell. 

But  when  we  planted  level  feet,  and  dipt 
Beneath  the  satin  dome  and  enter’d  in. 
There  leaning  deep  in  broider’d  down  we 
sank 

Our  elbows  : on  a tripod  in  the  midst 
A fragrant  flame  rose,  and  before  us  glow’d 
Fruit,  blossom,  viand,  amber  wine,  and  gold. 

Then  she,  “ Let  some  one  sing  to  us  : 
lightlier  move 

The  minutes  fledged  with  music  ” : and  a 
maid, 

Of  those  beside  her,  smote  her  harp,  and 
sang. 

“Tears,  idle  tears,  I know  not  what  they 
mean, 


Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes. 

In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 

And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a 
sail. 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world. 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
T.  hat  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“ Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 
dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken’d  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a glimmering 
square ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

“Dear  as  remember’d  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as- those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign’d 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ; deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  w'ith  all  regret ; 
O Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more.” 

She  ended  with  such  passion  that  the  tear, 
She  sang  of,  shook  and  fell,  an  erring  pearl 
Lost  in  her  bosom  : but  with  some  disdain 
Answer’d  the  Princess : “ If  indeed  there 
haunt 

About  the  moulder’d  lodges  of  the  Past 
So  sweet  a voice  and  vague,  fatal  to  men. 
Well  needs  it  we  should  cram  our  ears  with 
wool 

And  so  pace  by  : but  thine  are  fancies  hatch’d 
In  silken-folded  idleness  ; nor  is  it 
Wiser  to  weep  a true  occasion  lost. 

But  trim  our  sails,  and  let  old  bygones  be. 
While  down  the  streams  that  float  us  each 
and  all 

To  the  issue,  goes,  like  glittering  bergs  of  ice. 
Throne  after  throne,  and  molten  on  the  waste 
Becomes  a cloud  ; for  all  things  serve  their 
time 

Toward  that  great  year  of  equal  mights  and 
rights. 

Nor  would  I fight  w'ith  iron  laws,  in  the  end 
Found  golden  ; let  the  past  be  past ; let  be 
Their  cancell’d  Babels : tho’  the  rough  kex 
break 

The  starr’d  mosaic,  and  the  wild  goat  hang 
Upon  the  shaft,  and  the  wild  fig-tree  split 
Their  monstrous  idols,  care  not  w hile  we  hear 
A trumpet  in  the  distance  pealing  news 
Of  better,  and  Hope,  a poising  eagle,  burns 
Above  the  unrisen  morrow  ” : then  to  me, 

*“  Know  you  no  song  of  your  own  land,”  she 
said, 

* Not  such  as  moans  about  the  retrospect. 
But  deals  with  the  other  distance  and  the 
hues 

Of  promise  ; not  a death’s-head  at  the  wine.” 

Then  I remember’d  one  myself  had  made. 
What  time  I watch’d  the  swallow  winging 
south 


I 


A MEDLEY, 


93 


From  mine  own  land,  part  made  long  since, 
and  part 

Now  while  1 sang,  and  maidenlike  as  far 
As  I could  ape  their  treble,  did  I sing, 

“ O Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves. 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I tell  to  thee. 

“ O tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest 
each. 

That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

“O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I could  follow 
and  light 

Upon  her  lattice,  I would  pipe  and  trill. 

And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

“ O were  I thou  that  she  might  take  me  in. 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I died. 

“Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart 
with  love. 

Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are 
green  ? 

“O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is 
flown  : 

Say  to  her,  I do  but  wanton  in  the  South 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

“ O tell  her,  brief  is  life,  but  love  is  long. 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

“ O Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods. 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make 
her  mine. 

And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I follow  thee.” 

I ceased,  and  all  the  ladies,  each  at  each. 
Like  the  Ithacensian  suitors  in  old  time. 
Stared  with  great  eyes,  and  laugh’d  with  alien 
lips. 

And  knew  not  what  they  meant ; for  still  my 
voice 

Rang  false  : but  smiling,  “ Not  for  thee,”  she 
said, 

“ O Bulbul,  any  rose  of  Gulistan 
Shall  burst  her  veil : marsh-divers,  rather, 
maid. 

Shall  croak  thee  sister,  or  the  meadow-crake 
Grate  her  harsli  kindred  in  the  grass : and 
this 

A mere  love-poem  ! O for  such,  my  friend, 
We  hold  them  slight:  they  mind  us  of  the 
time 

When  we  made  bricks  in  Egypt.  Knaves 
are  men. 

That  lute  and  flute  fantastic  tenderness. 

And  dress  the  victim  to  the  offering  up. 

And  paint  the  gates  of  Hell  with  Paradise, 
And  play  the  slave  to  gain  the  tyranny. 

Poor  soul ! I had  a maid  of  honor  once  ; 

She  wept  her  true  eyes  blind  for  such  a one. 


A rogue  of  canzonets  and  serenades. 

I loved  her.  Peace  be  with  her.  She  is  dead. 
So  they  blaspheme  the  muse ! but  great  is 
song 

Used  to  great  ends : ourself  have  often  tried 
Valkyrian  hymns,  or  into  rhythm  have  dash’d 
The  passion  of  the  prophetess  ; for  song 
Is  duer  unto  freedom,  force  and  growth 
Of  spirit,  than  to  junketing  and  love. 

Love  is  it  ? Would  this  same  mock-love,  and 
this 

Mock-Hymen  were  laid  up  like  winter  bats. 
Till  all  men  grew  to  rate  us  at  our  worth. 

Not  vassals  to  be  beat,  nor  pretty  babes 
To  be  dandled,  no,  but  living  wills,  and 
sphered 

Whole  in  ourselves  and  owed  to  none. 
Enough  ! 

But  now  to  leaven  play  with  profit,  you. 
Know  you  no  song,  the  true  growth  of  your 
soil. 

That  gives  the  manners  of  your  country- 
women?” 

She  spoke  and  turn’d  her  sumptuous  head 
w'ith  eyes 

Of  shining  expectation  fixt  on  mine. 

Then  while  I dragg’d  my  brains  for  such  a 
song, 

Cyril,  with  whom  the  bell-mouth’d  flask  had 
wrought. 

Or  master’d  by  the  sense  of  sport,  began 
To  troll  a careless,  careless  tavern-catch 
Of  Moll  and  Meg,  and  strange  experiences 
Unmeet  for  ladies.  Florian  nodded  at  him, 

I frowning  ; Psyche  flush’d  and  w’ann’d  and 
shook  ; 

The  lilylike  Melissa  droop’d  her  brows  : 

“ Forbear,”  the  Princess  cried ; “Forbear, 
Sir,”  I ; 

And  heated  thro’  and  thro’  with  wrath  and 
love, 

I smote  him  on  the  breast ; he  started  up ; 
There  rose  a shriek  as  of  a city  sack’d ; 
Melissa  clamor’d,  “Flee  the  death”;  “To 
horse,” 

Said  Ida;  “home!  to  horse!”  and  fled,  as 
flies 

A troop  of  snowy  doves  athwart  the  dusk. 
When  some  one  batters  at  the  dovecote- 
doors. 

Disorderly  the  women.  Alone  I stood 
With  Florian,  cursing  Cyril,  vext  at  heart, 

In  the  pavilion  : there  like  parting  hopes 
I heard  them  passing  from  me  : hoof  by 
hoof. 

And  every  hoof  a knell  to  my  desires. 
Clang’d  on  the  bridge  ; and  then  another 
shriek, 

“ The  Head,  the  Head,  the  Princess,  O the 
Head  ! ” 

For  blind  with  rage  she  miss’d  the  plank,  and 
roll’d 

In  the  river.  Out  I sprang  from  glow  to 
gloom  : 

There  whirl’d  her  white  robe  like  a blos- 
som’d branch 

Rapt  to  the  horrible  fall : a glance  I gave. 


94 


THE  PRINCESS: 


No  more  ; but  woman-vested  as  I was 
Plunged  ; and  the  flood  drew  ; yet  I caught 
her ; then 

Oaring  one  arm,  and  bearing  in  my  left 
The  weight  of  all  the  hopes  of  half  the  world, 
Strove  to  buffet  to  land  in  vain.  A tree 
Was  half-disrooted  from  his  place  and  stoop’d 
To  drench  his  dark  locks  in  the  gurgling  wave 
Mid-channel.  Right  on  this  we  drove  and 
caught, 

And  grasping  down  the  boughs  I gain’d  the 
shore. 

There  stood  her  maidens  glimmeringly 
group’d 

In  the  hollow  bank.  One  reaching  forward 
drew 

My  burthen  from  mine  arms  ; they  cried, 
“ She  lives  ! ” 

They  bore  her  back  into  the  tent  ; but  I, 

So  much  a kind  of  shame  within  me  wrought, 
Not  yet  endured  to  meet  her  opening  eyes, 
Nor  found  my  friends  ; but  push’d  alone  on 
foot 

(For  since  her  horse  was  lost  I left  her  mine) 
Across  the  woods,  and  less  from  Indian  craft 
Than  beelike  instinct  hiveward,  found  at 
length 

The  garden  portals.  Two  great  statues.  Art 
And  Science,  Caryatids,  lifted  up 
A weight  of  emblem,  and  betwixt  were  valves 
Of  open-work  in  which  the  hunter  rued 
His  rash  intrusion,  manlike,  but  his  brows 
Had  sprouted,  and  the  branches  thereupon 
Spread  out  at  top,  and  grimly  spiked  the 
gates. 

A little  space  was  left  between  the  horns, 
Thro’  which  I clamber’d  o’er  at  top  with 
pain, 

Dropt  on  the  sward,  and  up  the  linden  walks. 
And,  tost  on  thoughts  that  changed  from  hue 
to  hue. 

Now  poring  on  the  glow-worm,  now*  the  star, 
I paced  the  terrace  till  the  bear  had  wheel’d 
Thro’  a great  arc  his  seven  slow  suns. 

A step 

Of  lightest  echo,  then  a loftier  form 
Than  female,  moving  thro’  the  uncertain 
gloom. 

Disturb’d  me  with  the  doubt  “ if  this  were 
she,” 

But  it  w'as  Florian.  “ Hist,  O hist,”  he  said, 
“ They  seek  us  : out  so  late  is  out  of  rules. 
Moreover  ‘ Seize  the  strangers  ’ is  the  cry. 
How  came  you  here  ? ” I told  him  : “ I,”  said 
he, 

“ Last  of  the  train,  a moral  leper,  I, 

To  whom  none  spake,  half-sick  at  heart,  re- 
turn’d. 

Arriving  all  confused  among  the  rest 
With  hooded  brows  I crept  into  the  hall, 
And,  couch’d  behind  a Judith,  underneath 
The  head  of  Holofernes  peep’d  and  saw. 
Girl  after  girl  was  call’d  to  trial : each 
Disclaim’d  all  knowledge  of  us : last  of  all, 
Melissa  : trust  me.  Sir,  I pitied  her. 

She,  question’d  if  she  knew  us  men,  at  first 


Was  silent ; closer  prest,  denied  it  not 
And  then,  demanded  if  her'mother  knew, 

Or  Psyche,  she  affirm’d  not,  or  denied  : 
From  whence  the  Royal  mind,  familiar  with 
her. 

Easily  gather’d  either  guilt.  She  sent 
For  Psyche,  but  she  was  not  there;  she 
call’d 

For  Psyche’s  child  to  cast  it  from  the  doors; 
She  sent  for  Blanche  to  accuse  her  face  to 
face  ; 

And  I slipt  out : but  whither  will  you  now  ? 
And  where  are  Psyche,  Cyril  ? both  are  fled : 
What,  if  together.?  that  were  not  so  well. 
Would  rather  we  had  never  come  ! I dread 
His  wildness,  and  the  chances  of  the  dark.” 

” And  yet,”  I said,  ‘‘you  wrong  him  more 
than  I 

That  struck  him  : this  is  proper  to  the  clown, 
Tho’  smock’d,  or  furr’d  and  purpled,  still  the 
clown. 

To  harm  the  thing  that  trusts  him,  and  to 
shame 

That  which  he  says  he  loves : for  Cyril, 
howe’er 

He  deal  in  frolic,  as  to-night  — the  song 
Might  have  been  worse  and  sinn’d  in  grosser 
lips 

Beyond  all  pardon  — as  it  is,  I hold 
These  flashes  on  the  surface  arr,  not  he. 

He  has  a solid  base  of  temper‘;.ment : 

But  as  the  water-lily  starts  and  slides 
Upon  the  level  in  little  puffs  o/  wind, 

Tho’  anchor’d  to  the  bottom,  such  is  he.” 

Scarce  had  I ceased  when  from  a tamarisk 
near 

Two  . Proctors  leapt  upon  us,  crying, 
” Names,” 

He,  standing  still,  was  clutch’d  ; but  I began 
To  thrid  the  musky-circled  mazes,  wind 
And  double  in  and  out  the  boles,  and  race 
By  all  the  fountains  : fleet  I was  of  foot : 
Before  me  shower’d  the  rose  in  flakes ; be- 
hind 

I heard  the  puffd  pursuer  ; at  mine  ear 
Bubbled  the  nightingale  and  heeded  not, 
And  secret  laughter  tickled  all  my  soul. 

At  last  I hook’d  my  ankle  in  a vine. 

That  claspt  the  feet  of  a Mnemosyne, 

And  falling  on  my  face  was  caught  and 
known. 

They  haled  us  to  the  Princess  where  she 
sat 

High  in  the  hall : above  her  droop’d  a lamp. 
And  made  the  single  Jewel  on  her  brow 
Burn  like  the  mystic  fire  on  a mast-head. 
Prophet  of  storm  : a hcindmaid  on  each  side 
Bow’d  toward  her,  combing  out  her  long 
black  hair  ^ 

Damp  from  the  river  ; and  clotse  behind  her 
stood 

Eight  daughters  of  tho  plough,  stronger  than 
men. 

Huge  women  blowje^j  ■♦t/ith  health,  and  wind, 
and  raiu. 


A MEDLEY.  95 


And  labor.  Each  was  like  a Druid  rock  ; 

Or  like  a spire  of  land  that  stands  apart 
Cleft  from  the  main,  and  wail’d  about  with 
mews. 

Then,  as  we  came,  the  crowd  dividing  clove 
An  advent  to  the  throne  ; and  there-beside, 
Half-naked,  as  if  caught  at  once  from  bed 
And  tumbled  on  the  purple  footcloth,  lay 
The  lily-shining  child  ; and  on  the  left. 
Bow’d  on  her  palms  and  folded  up  from 
wrong. 

Her  round  white  shoulder  shaken  with  her 
sobs, 

Melissa  knelt ; but  Lady  Blanche  erect 
Stood  up  and  spake,  an  affluent  orator. 

“ It  was  not  thus,  O Princess,  in  old  days  : 
You  prized  my  counsel,  lived  upon  my  lips  : 

I led  you  then  to  all  the  Castalies  ; 

I fed  you  with  the  milk  of  every  Muse  ; 

I loved  you  like  this  kneeler,  and  you  me 
Your  second  mother:  those  were  gracious 
times. 

Then  came  your  new  friend  : you  began  to 
change  — 

I saw  it  and  grieved  — to  slacken  and  to  cool ; 
Till  taken  with  her  seeming  openness 
You  turned  your  warmer  currents  all  to  her. 
To  me  you  froze  : this  was  my  meed  for  all. 
Yet  I bore  up  in  part  from  ancient  love. 

And  partly  that  I hoped  to  win  you  back, 
And  partly  conscious  of  my  own  deserts, 

And  partly  that  you  were  my  civil  head. 

And  chiefly  you  were  born  for  something 
great. 

In  which  I might  your  fellow- worker  be. 
When  time  should  serve  ; and  thus  a noble 
scheme 

Grew  up  from  seed  we  too  long  since  had 
sown ; 

In  us  true  growth,  in  her  a Jonah’s  gourd, 
Up  in  one  night  and  due  to  sudden  sun  : 

We  took  this  palace  ; but  even  from  the  first 
You  stood  in  your  own  light  and  darken’d 
mine. 

What  student  came  but  that  you  planed  her 
path 

To  Lady  Psyche,  younger,  not  so  wise, 

A foreigner,  and  I your  countrywoman, 

I your  old  friend  and  tried,  she  new  in  all  ? 
But  still  her  lists  were  swell’d  and  mine  were 
lean  ; 

Yet  I bore  up  in  hope  she  would  be  known  : 
Then  came  these  wolves : knew  her : 

^key  endured, 

Long-closeted  with  her  the  yester-morn, 

To  tell  her  what  they  were,  and  she  to  hear  : 
And  me  none  told  : not  less  to  an  eye  like 
mine, 

A lidless  watcher  of  the  public  weal, 

Last  night,  their  mask  was  patent,  and  my 
foot 

Was  to  you  : but  I thought  again  : I fear’d 
To  meet  a cold  ‘We  thank  you,  we  shall 
hear  of  it 

From  Lady  Psyche  ’ : you  had  gone  to  her. 
She  told,  perforce ; and  winning  easy  grace. 


No  doubt,  for  slight  delay,  remain’d  among 
us 

In  our  young  nursery  still  unknown,  the  stem 
Less  grain  than  touchwood,  while  my  honest 
heat 

Were  all  miscounted  as  malignant  haste 
To  push  my  rival  out  of  place  and  power. 
But  public  use  required  she  should  be 
known  ; 

And  since  my  oath  was  la’en  for  public  use, 

I broke  the  letter  of  it  to  keep  the  sense. 

I spoke  not  then  at  first,  but  watch’d  them 
well. 

Saw  that  they  kept  apart,  no  mischief  done  ; 
And  yet  this  day  (tho’  you  should  hate  me 
for  it) 

I came  to  tell  you : found  that  you  had  gone, 
Ridd’n  to  the  hills,  she  likewise  : now,  I 
thought. 

That  surely  she  will  speak  ; if  not,  then  I : 
Did  she  ? These  monsters  blazon’d  what 
they  were. 

According  to  the  coarseness  of  their  kind, 
For  thus  I hear ; and  known  at  last  (my 
work) 

And  full  of  cowardice  and  guilty  shame, 

I grant  in  her  some  sense  of  shame,  she 
flies  ; 

And  I remain  on  whom  to  wreak  your  rage, 
I,  that  have  lent  my  life  to  build  up  yours, 

I that  have  wasted  here  health,  wealth,  and 
time, 

And  talents,  I — you  know  it  — I will  not 
_ boast : 

Dismiss  me,  and  I prophesy  your  plan. 
Divorced  from  my  experience,  will  be  chaff 
For  every  gust  of  chance,  and  men  will  say 
We  did  not  know  the  real  light,  but  chased 
The  wisp  that  flickers  where  no  foot  can 
tread.” 

She  ceased  : the  Princess  answer’d  coldly 
“ Good  : 

Your  oath  is  broken  : we  dismiss  you  : go. 
For  this  lost  lamb  (she  pointed  to  the  child) 
Our  mind  is  changed : we  take  it  to  our- 
self.” 

Thereat  the  Lady  stretch’d  a vulture  throat, 
And  shot  from  crooked  lips  a haggard  smile. 
“The  plan  was  mine.  I built  the  nest,” 
she  said, 

“ To  hatch  the  cuckoo.  Rise  ! ” and  stoop’d 
to  updrag 

Melissa  : she,  half  on  her  mother  propt. 
Half-drooping  from  her,  turn’d  her  face,  and 
cast 

A liquid  look  on  Ida,  full  of  prayer, 

Which  melted  Florian’s  fancy  as  she  hung, 
A Niobean  daughter,  one  arm  out. 
Appealing  to  the  bolts  of  Heaven  ; and  whila 
We  gazed  upon  her  came  a little  stir 
About  the  doors,  and  on  a sudden  rush’d 
Among  us,  out  of  breath,  as  one  pursued, 

A woman-post  in  flying  raiment.  Fear 
Stared  in  her  eyes,  and  chalk’d  her  face,  and 
wing’d 

Her  transit  to  the  throne,  whereby  she  fell 


THE  PRINCESS: 


Delivering  seal’d  despatches  which  the  Head 
Took  half-amazed,  and  in  her  lion’s  mood 
Tore  open,  silent  we  with  blind  surmise 
Regarding,  while  she  read,  till  over  brow 
And  cheek  and  bosom  brake  the  wrathful 
bloom 

As  of  some  fire  against  a stormy  cloud, 
When  the  wild  peasant  rights  himself,  the 
rick 

Flames,  and  his  anger  reddens  in  the  heav- 
ens ; 

For  anger  most  it  seem’d,  while  now  her 
breast. 

Beaten  with  some  great  passion  at  her  heart. 
Palpitated,  her  hand  shook,  and  we  heard 
In  the  dead  hush  the  papers  that  she  held 
Rustle  : at  once  the  lost  lamb  at  her  feet 
Sent  out  a bitter  bleating  for  its  dam  ; 

The  plaintive  cry  jarr’d  on  her  ire ; she 
crush’d 

The  scrolls  together,  made  a sudden  turn 
As  if  to  speak,  but,  utterance  failing  her, 
She  whirl’d  them  on  to  me,  as  who  should  say 
“ Read,”  and  I read  — two  letters  — one  her 
sire’s. 

“ Fair  daughter,  when  we  sent  the  Prince 
your  w’ay 

We  knew  not  your  ungracious  laws,  which 
learnt. 

We,  conscious  of  what  temper  you  are  built. 
Came  all  in  haste  to  hinder  wrong,  but  fell 
Into  his  father’s  hands,  who  has  this  night. 
You  lying  close  upon  his  territory, 

Slipt  round  and  in  the  dark  invested  you. 
And  here  he  keeps  me  hostage  for  his  son,” 

The  second  was  my  father’s,  running  thus : 
“ You  have  our  son  ; touch  not  a hair  of  his 
head : 

Render  him  up  unscathed : give  him  your 
hand  : 

Cleave  to  your  contract : tho’  indeed  we  hear 
You  hold  the  woman  is  the  better  man  ; 

A rampant  heresy,  such  as  if  it  spread 
Would  make  all  women  kick  against  their 
lords 

Thro’  all  the  world,  and  which  might  well 
deserve 

That  we  this  night  should  pluck  your  palace 
down ; 

And  we  will  do  it,  unless  you  send  us  back 
Our  son,  on  the  instant,  whole.” 

So  far  I read  ; 

And  then  stood  up  and  spoke  impetuously. 

“ O not  to  pry  and  peer  on  your  reserve, 
But  led  by  golden  wishes,  and  a hope 
The  child  of  regal  compact,  did  I break 
Your  precinct ; not  a scorner  of  your  sex 
But  venerator,  zealous  it  should  be 
All  that  it  might  be  ; hear  me,  for  I bear, 
Tho’  man,  yet  human, whatsoe’eryour  wrongs, 
From  the  flaxen  curl  to  the  gray  lock  a life 
JLess  mine  than  yours  : my  nurse  would  tell 
me  of  you  ; 

I babbled  fof  yru,  as  babies  for  the  moon, 
Vague  brightness  ; when  a boy,  you  stoop’d 
to  *^e 


From  all  high  places,  lived  in  all  fair  lights. 
Came  in  long  breezes  rapt  from  inmost  south 
And  blown  to  inmost  north  ; at  eve  and  dawn 
With  Ida,  Ida,  Ida,  rang  the  woods  ; 

The  leader  wildswan  in  among  the  stars 
Would  clang  it,  and  lapt  in  wreaths  of  glow- 
worm light 

The  mellow  breaker  murmur’d  Ida.  Now, 
Because  I would  have  reach’d  you,  had  you 
been 

Sphered  up  with  Cassiopeia,  or  the  enthroned 
Persephone  in  Hades,  now  at  length, 

Those  winters  of  abeyance  all  worn  out, 

A man  I came  to  see  you  : but,  indeed. 

Not  in  this  frequence  can  I lend  full  tongue, 

0 noble  Ida,  to  those  thoughts  that  wait 
On  you,  their  centre  : let  me  say  but  this. 
That  many  a famous  man  and  woman,  town 
And  landskip,  have  I heard  of,  after  seen 
The  dwarfs  of  prestige ; tho’  when  known, 

there  grew 

Another  kind  of  beauty  in  detail 
Made  them  worth  knowing ; but  in  you  I 
found 

My  boyish  dream  involved  and  dazzled  down 
And  master’d,  while  that  after-beauty  makes 
Such  head  from  act  to  act,  from  hour  to  hour. 
Within  me,  that  except  you  slay  me  here. 
According  to  your  bitter  statute-book, 

1 cannot  cease  to  follow  you,  as  they  say 
The  seal  does  music  ; who  desire  you  more 
Than  growing  boys  their  manhood ; dying 

lips. 

With  many  thousand  matters  left  to  do. 

The  breath  of  life ; O more  than  poor  men 
wealth. 

Than  sick  men  health,  — yours,  yours,  not 
mine,  — but  half 

Without  you,  with  you,  whole  ; and  of  those 
halves 

You  worthiest ; and  howe’er  you  block  and 
bar 

Your  heart  with  system  out  from  mine,  I hold 
That  it  becomes  no  man  to  nurse  despair, 
But  in  the  teeth  of  clench’d  antagonisms 
To  follow  up  the  worthiest  till  he  die  : 

Yet  that  I came  not  all  unauthorized 
Behold  your  father’s  letter.” 

On  one  knee 

Kneeling,  I gave  it,  which  she  caught,  and 
dash’d 

Unopen’d  at  her  feet : a tide  of  fierce 
Invective  seem’d  to  wait  behind  her  lips. 

As  waits  a river  level  with  the  dam  ^ 

Ready  to  burst  and  flood  the  worldwith  foam; 
And  so  she  would  have  spoken,  but  there  rose 
A hubbub  in  the  court  of  half  the  maids 
Gather’d  together  : from  the  illumined  hall 
Long  lanes  of  splendor  slanted  o’er  a press 
Of  snowy  shoulders,  thick  as  herded  ewes, 
And  rainbow  robes,  and  gems  and  gem-like 
eyes. 

And  gold  and  golden  heads  ; they  to  and  fro 
Fluctuated,  as  flowers  in  storm,  some  red, 
some  pale. 

All  open-mouth’d,  all  gazing  to  the  light. 
Some  crying  there  was  an  army  in  the  land. 
And  some  that  men  were  in  the  very  walls. 


A MEDLEY, 


And  some  they  cared  not ; till  a clamor  grew 
As  of  a new-world  Babel,  woman-built, 

And  worse  confounded:  high  above  them  stood 
The  placid  marble  Muses,  looking  peace. 

Not  peace  she  look’d,  the  Head  : but  ris- 
ing up 

Robed  in  the  long  night  of  her  deep  hair,  so 
To  the  open  window  moved,  remaining  there 
Fixt  like  a beacon-tower  above  the  waves 
Of  tempest,  when  the  crimson-rolling  eye 
Glares  ruin,  and  the  wild  birds  on  the  light 
Dash  themselves  dead.  She  stretch’d  her 
arms  and  call’d 

Across  the  tumult  and  the  tumult  fell. 

What  fear  ye  brawlers  ? am  not  I your 
Head? 

On  me,  me,  me,  the  storm  first  breaks : / 
dare  . . 

All  these  male  thunderbolts  : what  is  it  ye 
fear? 

Peace  ! there  are  those  to  avenge  us  and 
they  come : 

If  not,  — myself  were  like  enough,  O girls, 
To  unfurl  the  maiden  banner  of  our  rights, 
And  clad  in  iron  burst  the  ranks  of  war. 

Or,  falling,  protomartyr  of  our  cause. 

Die  : yet  I blame  ye  not  so  much  for  fear ; 
Six  thousand  years  of  fear  have  made  ye  that 
From  which  I would  redeem  ye  : but  for 
those 

That  stir  this  hubbub  — you  and  you  — I 
know 

Your  faces  there  in  the  crowd  — to-morrow 
morn 

We  hold  a great  convention  : then  shall  they 
That  love  their  voices  more  than  duty,  learn 
With  whom  they  deal,  dismiss’d  in  shame  to 
live 

No  wiser  than  their  mothers,  household  stuff. 
Live  chattels,  mincers  of  each  other’s  fame. 
Full  of  weak  poison,  turnspits  for  the  clown, 
The  drunkard’s  football,  laughing-stocks  of 
Time, 

Whose  brains  are  in  their  hands  and  in  their 
heels, 

But  fit  to  flaunt,  to  dress,  to  dance,  to  thrum. 
To  tramp,  to  scream,  to  burnish,  and  to  scour. 
Forever  slaves  at  home  and  fools  abroad.” 

She,  ending,  waved  her  hands : thereat 
the  crowd 

Muttering  dissolved  : then  with  a smile,  that 
look’d 

A stroke  of  cruel  sunshine  on  the  cliff. 

When  all  the  glens  are  drown’d  in  azure 
gloom 

Of  thunder-shower,  she  floated  to  us  and  said: 

“You  have  done  well  and  like  a gentleman. 
And  like  a prince  : you  have  our  thanks  for  all: 
And  you  look  well  too  in  your  woman’s  dress : 
Well  have  you  done  and  like  a gentleman. 
You  saved  our  life  : we  owe  you  bitter  thanks  : 
Better  have  died  and  spilt  our  bones  in  the 
flood  — 

Then  men  had  said  — but  now  — What  hin- 
ders me 


97 

To  take  such  bloody  vengeance  on  you 
both?  — 

Yet  since  our  father  — Wasps  in  our  good 
hive. 

You  would-be  quenchers  of  the  light  to  be. 
Barbarians,  grosser  than  your  native  bears  — 

0 would  I had  his  sceptre  for  one  hour  ! 

You  that  have  dared  to  break  our  bound,  and 

gull’d 

Our  servants,  wrong'd  and  lied  and  thwarted 
us  — 

/ wed  with  thee  ! / bound  by  precontract 
Your  bride,  your  bondslave  ! not  tho’  all  the 
gold 

That  veins  the  world  were  pack’d  to  make 
your  crown. 

And  every  spoken  tongue  should  lord  you. 
Sir, 

Your  falsehood  and  yourself  are  hateful  to  us: 

1 trample  on  your  offers  and  on  you  : 

Begone  : we  will  not  look  upon  you  more. 
Here,  push  them  out  at  gates.” 

In  wrath  she  spake. 
Then  those  eight  mighty  daughters  of  the 
plough 

Bent  their  broad  faces  toward  us  and  ad- 
dress’d 

Their  motion  : twice  I sought  to  plead  my 
cau.se. 

But  on  my  shoulder  hung  their  heavy  hands. 
The  weight  of  destiny  : so  from  her  face 
They  push’d  us,  down  the  steps,  and  thro’ 
the  court. 

And  with  grim  laughter  thrust  us  out  at  gates. 

We  cross’d  the  street  and  gain’d  a petty 
mound 

Beyond  it,  whence  we  saw  the  lights  and 
heard 

The  voices  murmuring.  While  I listen’d, 
came 

On  a sudden  the  weird  seizure  and  the  doubt : 
I seem’d  to  move  among  a world  of  ghosts  : 
The  Princess  with  her  monstrous  woman- 
guard, 

The  jest  and  earnest  working  side  by  side, 
The  cataract  and  the  tumult  and  the  kings 
Were  shadows ; and  the  long  fantastic  night 
With  all  its  doings  had  and  had  not  been. 
And  all  things  were  and  were  not.  ^ 

This  went  by 

As  strangely  as  it  came,  and  on  my  spirits 
Settled  a gentle  cloud  of  melancholy  ; 

Not  long ; I shook  it  off ; for  spite  of  doubts 
And  sudden  ghostly  shadowings  I was  one 
I'o  whom  the  touch  of  all  mischance  but  came 
As  night  to  him  that  sitting  on  a hill 
Sees  the  midsummer,  midnight,  Norway  sun 
Set  into  sunrise  : then  we  moved  away. 

Thy  voice  is  heard  thro’  rolling  drums, 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands ; 

Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands  ; 

A moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow. 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee  ; 

The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


98 


THE  PRINCESS: 


So  Lilia  sang  : we  thought  her  half-possess’d, 
She  struck  such  warbling  fury  thro’  the  words; 
And,  after,  feigning  pique  at  what  she  call’d 
The  raillery,  or  grotesque,  or  false  sublime  — 
Like  one  that  wishes  at  a dance  to  change 
The  music  — clapt  her  hands  and  cried  for 
war, 

Or  some  grand  fight  to  kill  and  make  an  end  : 
And  he  that  next  inherited  the  tale 
Half  turning  to  the  broken  statue  said, 

“ Sir  Ralph  has  got  your  colors  : if  I prove 
Your  knight,  and  fight  your  battle,  what  for 
me  ? ” 

It  chanced,  her  empty  glove  upon  the  tomb 
Lay  by  her  like  a model  of  her  hand. 

She  took  it  and  she  flung  it.  “Fight,”  she 
said, 

“ And  make  us  all  we  would  be,  great  and 
^ood.” 

He  knightlike  in  his  cap  instead  of  casque, 

A cap  of  Tyrol  borrow’d  from  the  hall, 
Arranged  the  favor,  and  assumed  the  Prince. 


V. 

Now,  scarce  three  paces  measured  from  the 
mound. 

We  stumbled  on  a stationary  voice. 

And  “ Stand,  who  goes  ? ” “ Two  from  the 

palace,”  1. 

“ The  second  two ; they  wait,”  he  said, 
“ pass  on ; 

His  Highness  wakes”  ; and  one,  that  clash’d 
in  arms. 

By  glimmering  lanes  and  walls  of  canvas,  led 
Threading  the  soldier-city,  till  we  heard 
The  drowsy  folds  of  our  great  ensign  shake 
From  blazon’d  lions  o’er  the  imperial  tent 
Whispers  of  war. 

Entering,  the  sudden  light 
Dazed  me  half-blind  : I stood  and  seem’d  to 
hear. 

As  in  a poplar  grove  when  a light  wind  wakes 
A lisping  of  the  innumerous  leaf  and  dies. 
Each  hissing  in  his  neighbor’s  ear  ; and  then 
A strangled  titter,  out  of  which  there  brake 
On  all  sides,  clamoring  etiquette  to  death. 
Unmeasured  mirth  ; while  now  the  two  old 
kings 

Began  to  wag  their  baldness  up  and  down, 
The  fresh  young  captains  flash’d  their  glit- 
tering teeth, 

The  huge  bush-bearded  Barons  heaved  and 
blew. 

And  slain  with  laughter  roll’d  the  gilded 
Squire. 

At  length  my  Sire,  his  rough  cheek  wet 
with  tears, 

Panted  from  weary  sides,  “ King,  you  are  free! 
We  did  but  keep  you  surety  for  our  son. 

If  this  be  he,  — or  a draggled  mawkin,  thou. 
That  tends  her  bristled  grunters  in  the 
sludge  ” : 

For  I was  drench’d  with  ooze,  and  torn  with 
briers. 

More  crumpled  than  a poppy  from  the  sheath. 
And  all  one  rag,  disprinced  from  head  to  heel. 


Then  some  one  sent  beneath  his  vaulted  palm 
A whisper’d  jest  to  some  one  near  him 
“ Look, 

He  has  been  among  his  shadows.”  “ Satan 
take 

The  old  women  and  their  shadows  ! (thus 
the  King 

Roar’d)  make  yourself  a man  to  fight  with 
men. 

Go  : Cyril  told  us  all.” 

As  boys  that  slink 

From  ferule  and  the  trespass- chfding  eye. 
Away  we  stole,  and  transient  in  a trice 
From  what  was  left  of  faded  woman-slough 
To  sheathing  splendors  and  the  golden  scale 
Of  harness,  issued  in  the  sun,  that  now 
Leapt  from  the  dewy  shoulders  of  the  Earth, 
And  hit  the  northern  Fills.  Here  Cyril  met  us, 
A little  shy  at  first,  but  by  and  by 
We  tw'ain,  with  mutual  pardon  ask’d  and 
given 

For  stroke  and  song,  resolder’d  peace,  where- 
on 

Follow’d  his  tale.  Amazed  he  fled  aw’ay 
Thro’  the  dark  land,  and  later  in  the  night 
Had  come  on  Psyche  weeping : “ then  w'e  fell 
Into  your  father’s  hand,  and  there  she  lies. 
But  w'ill  not  speak,  nor  stir.” 

He  show’d  a tent 

A stone-shot  off:  we  enter’d  in,  and  there 
Among  piled  arms  and  rough  accoutrements, 
Pitiful  sight,  wrapt  in  a soldier’s  cloak. 

Like  some  sweet  sculpture  draped  from  head 
to  foot, 

And  push’d  by  rude  hands  from  its  pedestal, 
All  her  fair  length  upon  the  ground  she  lay  : 
And  at  her  head  a follower  of  the  camp, 

A charr’d  and  wrinkled  piece  of  womanhood, 
Sat  watching  like  a watcher  by  the  dead. 

Then  Florian  knelt,  and  “ Come,”  he^ 
whisper’d  to  her, 

“ Lift  up  your  head,  sweet  sister : lie  not  thus. 
What  have  you  done  but  right?  you  could 
not  slay 

Me,  nor  your  prince  : look  up  : be  comforted  : 
Sweet  is  it  to  have  done  the  thing  one  ought. 
When  fall’n  in  darker  ways.”  And  likewise  I : 
“ Be  comforted  : have  I not  lost  her  too. 

In  whose  least  act  abides  the  nameless  charm 
That  none  has  else  for  me?”  She  heard, 
she  moved. 

She  moan’d,  a folded  voice  ; and  up  she  sat. 
And  raised  the  cloak  from  brows  as  pale  and 
smooth 

As  those  that  mourn  half-shrouded  over 
death 

In  deathless  marble.  “ Her,”  she  said,  “ my 
friend  — 

Parted  from  her — betray’d  her  cause  and 
mine  — 

Where  shall  I breathe  ? why  kept  ye  not  your 
faith  ? 

O base  and  bad  I what  comfort  ? none  for 
me  ! ” 

To  whom  remorseful  Cyril,  “ Yet  I pray 
Take  comfort : live,  dear  lady,  for  your  child  ! ” 
At  which  she  lifted  up  her  voice  and  cried. 


A MEDLEY. 


“ Ah  me,  my  babe,  my  blossom,  ah  my 
child, 

My  one  sweet  child,  whom  I shall  see  no 
more  ! 

For  now  will  cruel  Ida  keep  her  back  ; 

And  either  she  will  die  from  want  of  care, 

Or  sicken  with  ill  usage,  when  they  say 
The  child  is  hers — for  every  little  fault. 

The  child  is  hers  ; and  they  will  beat  my  girl 
Remembering  her  mother  ; O my  flower  ! 
Or  they  will  take  her,  thejr  will  make  her  hard. 
And  she  will  pass  me  by  in  after-life 
With  some  cold  reverence  worse  than  were 
she  dead. 

Ill  mother  that  I was  to  leave  her  there. 

To  lag  behind,  scared  by  the  cry  they  made, 
The  horror  of  the  shame  among  them  all : 

But  I will  go  and  sit  beside  the  doors, 

And  make  a wild  petition  night  and  day. 
Until  they  hate  to  hear  me  like  a wind 
Wailing  forever,  till  they  open  to  me. 

And  lay  my  little  blossom  at  my  feet. 

My  babe,  my  sweet  Aglaia,  my  one  child  : 
And  I will  take  her  up  and  go  my  way. 

And  satisfy  my  soul  with  kissing  her  : 

Ah  ! what  might  that  man  not  deserve  of  me. 
Who  gave  me  back  my  child?”  “ Be  com- 
forted,” 

Said  Cyril,  “you  shall  have  it,”  but  again 
She  veil’d  her  brows,  and  prone  she  sank, 
and  so 

Like  tender  things  that  being  caught  feign 
death. 

Spoke  not,  nor  stirr’d. 

By  this  a murmur  ran 
Thro’  all  the  camp  and  inward  raced  the 
scouts 

With  rumor  of  Prince  Arac  hard  at  hand. 

We  left  her  by  the  woman,  and  without 
Found  the  gray  kings  at  parle  : and  “ Look 
you,”  cried 

My  father,  “ that  our  compact  be  fulfill’d  : 
You  have  spoilt  this  child  ; she  laughs  at  you 
and  man  : 

She  wrongs  herself,  her  sex,  and  me,  and 
him  : 

But  red-faced  war  has  rods  of  steel  and  fire  ; 
She  yields,  or  war.” 

Then  Gama  turn’d  to  me  : 
“ We  fear,  indeed,  you  spent  a stormy  time 
With  our  strange  girl  : and  yet  they  say  that 
still 

You  love  her.  Give  us,  then,  your  mind  at 
large : 

How  say  you,  war  or  not?  ” 

“ Not  war,  if  possible, 
O king,”  I said,  “ lest  from  the  abuse  of  war, 
The  desecrated  shrine,  the  trampled  year. 
The  smouldering  homestead,  and  the  house- 
hold flower 

Torn  from  the  lintel  — all  the  common 
wrong  — 

A smoke  go  up  thro’  which  I loom  to  her 
Three  times  a monster  : now  she  lightens 
scorn 

At  him  that  mars  her  plan,  but  then  would 
hate 

(And  every  voice  she  talk’d  with  ratify  it. 


99 

And  every  face  she  look’d  on  justify  it) 

The  general  foe.  More  soluble  is  this  knot, 
By  gentleness  than  war.  I want  her  love. 
What  were  I nigher  this  altho’  we  dash’d 
Your  cities  into  shards  with  catapults. 

She  would  not  love  ; — or  brought  her  chain’d, 
a slave. 

The  lifting  of  whose  eyelash  is  my  lord. 

Not  ever  would  she  love  ; but  brooding  turn 
The  book  of  scorn  till  all  my  little  chance 
Were  caught  within  the  record  of  her  wrongs, 
And  crush’d  to  death  ; and  rather.  Sire,  than 
this 

I would  the  old  god  of  war  himself  were  dead. 
Forgotten,  rusting  on  his  iron  hills. 

Rotting  on  some  wild  shore  with  ribs  of  wreck. 
Or  like  an  old-world  mammoth  bulk’d  in  ice, 
Not  to  be  molten  out.” 

And'roughly  spake 
My  father,  “ Tut,  you  know  them  not,  the 
girls. 

Boy,  when  I hear  you  prate  I almost  think 
That  idiot  legend  credible.  Look  you.  Sir  ! 
Man  is  the  hunter  ; woman  is  his  game  : 

The  sleek  and  shining  creatures  of  the  chase. 
We  hunt  them  for  the  beauty  of  their  skins  ; 
They  love  us  for  it,  and  we  ride  them  down. 
Wheedling  and  siding  with  them  ! Out  ! for 
shame  ! 

Boy,  there’s  no  rose  that’s  half  so  dear  to  them 
As  he  that  does  the  thing  they  dare  not  do. 
Breathing  and  sounding  beauteous  battle, 
comes 

With  the  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him,  and 
leaps  in 

Among  the  women,  snares  them  by  the  score 
Flatter’d  and  fluster’d,  wins,  though  dash’d 
with  death 

He  reddens  what  he  kisses  : thus  I won 
Your  mother,  a good  mother,  a good  wife, 
Worth  winning  ; but  this  firebrand  — gentle- 
ness 

To  such  as  her  ! if  Cyril  spake  her  true. 

To  catch  a dragon  in  a cherry  net. 

To  trip  a tigress  with  a gossamer. 

Were  wisdom  to  it.” 

. “ Yea,  but  Sire,”  Lcried, 

“ Wild  natures  need  wise  curbs.  The  soldier  ? 
No; 

What  dares  not  Ida  do  that  she  should  prize 
The  soldier?  I beheld  her,  when  she  rose 
The  yester-night,  and  storming  in  extremes 
Stood  for  her  cause,  and  flung  defiance  down 
Gagelike  to  man,  and  had  not  shunn’d  the 
death. 

No,  not  the  soldier’s  : yet  I hold  her,  king. 
True  woman  : but  you  clash  them  all  in  one, 
That  have  as  many  differences  as  we. 

The  violet  varies  from  the  lily  as  far 
As  oak  from  elm  : one  loves  the  soldier,  one 
The  silken  priest  of  peace,  one  this,  one  that. 
And  some  unworthily  ; their  sinless  faith, 

A maiden  moon  that  sparkles  on  a sty. 
Glorifying  clown  and  satyr ; whence  they 
need 

More  breadth  of  culture  : is  not  Ida  right? 
They  worth  it  ? truer  to  the  law  within  ? 
Severer  in  the  logic  of  a life  ? 


THE  PRINCESS: 


Twice  as  magnetic  to  sweet  influences 
Of  earth  and  heaven  ? and  she  of  whom  you 
speak. 

My  mother,  looks  asw'hole  as  some  serene 
Creation  minted  in  the  golden  moods 
Of  sovereign  artists  ; not  a thought,  a touch, 
But  pure  as  lines  of  green  that  streak  the 
white 

Of  the  first  snowdrop’s  inner  leaves ; I say, 
Not  like  the  piebald  miscellany,  man, 

Bursts  of  great  heart  and  slips  in  sensual 
mire. 

But  whole  and  one : and  take  them  all-in-all. 
Were  we  ourselves  but  half  as  good,  as  kind, 
As  truthful,  much  that  Ida  claims  as  right 
Had  ne’er  been  mooted,  but  as  frankly  theirs 
As  dues  of  Nature.  To  our  point ; not  war ; 
Lest  I lose  all.” 

“ Nay,  nay,  you  spake  but  sense,” 
Said  Gama.  “We  remember  love  ourselves 
In  our  sweet  youth  ; we  did  not  rate  him  then 
This  red-hot  iron  to  be  shaped  with  blows. 
You  talk  almost  like  Ida  : she  can  talk  ; 

And  there  is  something  in  it  as  you  say  : 

But  you  talk  kindlier : we  esteem  you  for  it.  — 
He  seems  a gracious  and  a gallant  Prince, 

I would  he  had  our  daughter ; for  the  rest, 
Our  own  detention,  why  the  causes  weigh’d. 
Fatherly  fears  — you  used  us  courteously  — 
We  would  do  much  to  gratify  your  Prince  — 
We  pardon  it : and  for  your  ingress  here 
Upon  the  skirt  and  fringe  of  our  fair  land. 
You  did  but  come  as  goblins  in  the  night. 
Nor  in  the  furrow  broke  the  ploughman’s 
head. 

Nor  burnt  the  grange,  nor  buss’d  the  milking- 
maid, 

Nor  robb’d  the  farmer  of  his  bowl  of  crearn  : 
But  let  your  Prince  (our  royal  word  upon  it. 
He  comes  back  safe)  ride  with  us  to  our  linp. 
And  speak  with  Arac  : Arac’s  word  is  thrice 
As  ours  with  Ida  : something  may  be  done  — 
I know  not  what  — and  ours  shall  see  us 
friends. 

You,  likewise,  our  late  guests,  if  so  you  will. 
Follow  us:  who  knows?  we  four  may  build 
some  plan 

Foursquare  to  opposition.” 

Here  he  reach’d 
White  hands  of  farewell  to  my  sire,  who 
growl’d 

An  answer  which,  half- muffled  in  his  beard. 
Let  so  much  out  as  gave  us  leave  to  go. 

Then  rode  we  with  the  old  king  across  the 
lawns 

Beneath  huge  trees,  a thousand  ring.s  of 
Spring 

In  every  bole,  a song  on  every  spray 
Of  birds  that  piped  their  Valentines,  and 
woke 

Desire  in  me  to  infuse  my  tale  of  love 
In  the  old  king’s  ears,  who  promised  help, 
and  oozed 

All  o’er  with  honey’d  answer  as  we  rode ; 
And  blossom-fragrant  slipt  the  heavy  devrs 
Gather’d  by  night  and  peace,  with  each  light 
air 


On  our  mail’d  heads  : but  other  thoughts  than 
Peace 

Burnt  in  us,  when  vre  saw  the  embattled 
squares. 

And  squadrons  of  the  Prince,  trampling  the 
flowers 

With  clamor  : for  among  them  rose  a cry 
As  if  to  greet  the  king  : they  made  a halt ; 
The  horses  yell’d  ; they  clash’d  their  arms  ; 
the  drum 

Beat ; merrily-blowing  shrill’d  the  martial 
fife ; 

And  in  the  blast  and  bray  of  the  long  horn 
A.nd  serpent-throated  bugle,  undulated 
The  banner  : anon  to  meet  us  lightly  pranced 
Three  captains  out ; nor  ever  had  I seen 
Such  thews  of  men  : the  midmost  and  the 
highest 

Was  Arac  : all  about  his  motion  clung 
The  shadow  of  his  sister,  as  the  beam 
Of  the  East,  that  play’d  upon  them,  made 
them  glance 

Like  those  three  stars  of  the  airy  Giant’s 
zone. 

That  glitter  burnish’d  by  the  frosty  dark  ; 
And  as  the  fiery  Sirius  alters  hue. 

And  bickers  into  red  and  emerald,  shone 
Their  morions,  wash’d  with  morning,  as  they 
came. 

And  I that  prated  peace,  when  first  I 
heard 

War-music,  felt  the  blind  wildbeast  of  force, 
Whose  home  is  in  the  sinews  of  a man. 

Stir  in  me  as  to  strike  : then  took  the  king 
His  three  broad  sons ; with  now  a wandering 
hand 

And  now  a pointed  finger,  told  them  all : 

A common  light  of  smiles  at  our  disguise 
Broke  from  their  lips,  and,  ere  the  windy  jest 
Had  labor’d  down  within  his  ample  lungs, 
The  genial  giant,  Arac,  roll’d  himself 
Thrice  in  the  saddle,  then  burst  out  in  words. 

“ Our  land  invaded,  ’sdeath  ! and  he  him- 
self 

Your  captive,  yet  my  father  wills  not  w'ar : 
And,  ’sdeath  ! myself,  what  care  I,  war  or 
no? 

But  then  this  question  of  your  troth  remains  : 
And  there ’s  a downright  honest  meaning  in 
her ; 

She  flies  too  high,  she  flies  too  high  ! and  yet 
She  ask’d  but  space  and  fairplay  for  her 
scheme : 

She  prest  and  prest  it  on  me  — I myself. 
What  know  I of  these  things?  but,  life  and 
soul ! 

I thought  her  half-right  talking  ofher  wTongs : 
I say  she  flies  too  high,  ’sdeath  ! what  oi 
that? 

I take  her  for  the  flower  of  womankind. 

And  so  I often  told  her,  right  or  wTong, 

And,  Prince,  she  can  be  sw'eet  to  those  she 
Joves,  , . 

And,  right  or  wrong,  I care  not  : this  is  all, 

I stand  upon  her  side  : she  made  me  swear 
it  — 


A MEDLE-y,  lot 


’Sdeath,  — and  with  solemn  rites  by  candle- 
light — 

Swear  by  St.  something  — I forget  her 
name  — 

Her  that  talk’d  down  the  fifty  wisest  men  : 
She  was  a princess  too  ; and  so  I swore. 
Come,  this  is  all ; she  will  not : waive  your 
claim, 

If  not,  thefoughten  field,  what  else,  at  once 
Decides  it,  ’sdeath ! against  my  father’s 
will.” 

I lagg’d  in  answer  loath  to  render  up 
My  precontract,  and  loath  by  brainless  war 
To  cleave  the  rift  of  difference  deeper  yet ; 
Till  one  of  those  two  brothers,  half  aside 
And  fingering  at  the  hair  about  his  lip. 

To  prick  us  on  to  combat  “ Like  to  like  ! 

The  woman’s  garment  hid  the  woman’s 
heart.” 

A taunt  that  clench’d  his  purpose  like  a blow  1 
For  fiery-short  was  Cyril’s  counter-scoff, 

And  sharp  I answer’d,  touch’d  upon  the  point 
Where  idle  boys  are  cowards  to  their  shame, 
“ Decide  it  here  : why  not  ? we  are  three  to 
three.” 

Then  spake  the  third,  “ But  three  to  three  ? 
no  more  ? 

No  more,  and  in  our  noble  sister’s  cause  ? 
More,  more,  for  honor : every  captain  waits 
Hungry  for  honor,  angry  for  his  king. 

More,  more,  some  fifty  on  a side,  that  each 
May  breathe  himself,  and  quick  ! by  over- 
throw 

Of  these  or  those,  the  question  settled  die.” 

“Yea,”  answer’d  I,  “for  this  wild  wreath 
of  air. 

This  flake  of  rainbow  flying  on  the  highest 
Foam  of  men’s  deeds  — this  honor,  if  ye  will. 
It  needs  must  be  for  honor  if  at  all : 

Since,  what  decision  ? if  we  fail,  we  fail. 

And  if  we  win,  we  fail  : she  would  not  keep 
Her  compact.”  “ ’Sdeath  ! but  we  will  send 
to  her,” 

Said  Arac,  “ worthy  reasons  why  she  should 
Bide  by  this  issue : let  qur  missive  thro’. 

And  you  shall  have  her  answer  by  the  word.” 

“ Boys  ! ” shriek’d  the  old  king,  but  vainlier 
than  a hen 

To  her  false  daughters  in  the  pool ; for  none 
Rega’^ded  : neither  seem’d  there  more  to  say  : 
Back  rode  we  to  my  father’s  camp,  and  found 
He  thrice  had  sent  a herald  to  the  gates. 

To  learn  if  Ida  yet  would  cede  our  claim. 

Or  by  denial  flush  her  babbling  wells 
With  her  own  people’s  life  ; three  times  he 
went : 

The  first,  he  blew  and  blew,  but  none  ap- 
pear’d : 

He  batter’d  at  the  doors  ; none  came  : the 
next. 

An  awful  voice  within  had  warn’d  him 
thence : 

ITie  third,  and  those  eight  daughters  of  the 
plough 


Came  sallying  thro’  the  gates,  and  caught  his 
hair, 

And  so  belabor’d  him  on  rib  and  cheek 
They  made  him  wild  : not  less  one  glance  he 
caught 

Thro’  open  doors  of  Ida  station’d  there 
Unshaken,  clinging  to  her  purpose,  firm 
Tho’  compass’d  by  two  armies  and  the  noise 
Of  arms  ; and  standing  like  a stately  Pine 
Set  in  a cataract  on  an  island-crag. 

When  storm  is  on  the  heights,  and  right  and 
left 

Suck’d  from  the  dark  heart  of  the  long  hills 
roll 

The  torrents,  dash’d  to  the  vale  : and  yet  her 
will 

Bred  will  in  me  to  overcome  it  or  fall. 

But  when  I told  the  king  that  I was  pledged 
To  fight  in  tourney  for  my  bride,  he  clash’d 
His  iron  palms  together  with  a cry  ; 

Himself  would  tilt  it  out  among  the  lads  : 
But  overborne  by  all  his  bearded  lords 
With  reasons  drawn  from  age  and  state,  per- 
force 

He  yielded,  wroth  and  red,  with  fierce  de- 
mur : 

And  many  a bold  knight  started  up  in  heat. 
And  sware  to  combat  for  my  claim  till  death. 

All  on  this  side  the  palace  ran  the  field 
Flat  to  the  garden  wall  : and  likewise  here. 
Above  the  garden’s  glowing  blossom-belts, 

A column’d  entry  shone  and  marble  stairs. 
And  great  bronze  valves,  emboss’d  with 
Tomyris 

And  what  she  did  to  Cyrus  after  fight. 

But  now  fast  barr’d  ; so  here  upon  the  flat 
All  that  long  morn  the  lists  were  hammer’d 
up. 

And  all  that  morn  the  heralds  to  and  fro. 
With  message  and  defiance,  went  and  came  ; 
Last,  Ida’s  answer,  in  a royal  hand, 

But  shaken  here  and  there,  and  rolling  words 
Oration-like.  I kiss’d  it  and  I read. 

“ O brother,  you  have  known  the  pangs  we 
felt. 

What  heats  of  indignation  when  we  heard 
Of  those  that  iron-cramp’d  their  women’s 
feet ; 

Of  lands  in  which  at  the  altar  the  poor  bride 
Gives  her  harsh  groom  for  bridal-gift  a 
scourge  ; 

Of  living  hearts  that  crack  within  the  fire 
Where  smoulder  their  dead  despots  ; and  of 
those,  — 

Mothers,  — that,  all  prophetic  pity,  fling 
Their  pretty  maids  in  the  running  flood,  and 
swoops 

The  vulture,  beak  and  talon,  at  the  heart 
Made  for  all  noble  motion  : and  I saw 
That  equal  baseness  lived  in  sleeker  times 
With  smoother  men  : the  old  leaven  leaven’d 
_ all: 

Millions  of  throats  would  bawl  for  civil  rights. 
No  woman  named  : therefore  I set  my  face 
Against  all  men,  and  lived  but  for  mine  own. 
Far  off  from  men  I built  a fold  for  them  ; 


102  THE  PRINCESS: 


I stored  it  full  of  rich  memorial  : 

I fenced  it  round  with  gallant  institutes, 

And  biting  laws  to  scare  the  beasts  of  prey, 
And  prosper’d  ; till  a rout  of  saucy  boys 
Brake  on  us  at  our  books,  and  marr’d  our 
peace. 

Mask’d  like  our  maids,  blustering  I know 
not  what 

Of  insolence  and  love,  some  pretext  held 
Of  baby  troth,  invalid,  since  my  will 
Seal’d  not  the  bond  — the  striplings  ! — for 
their  sport  ! — 

I tamed  my  leopards  : shall  I not  tame  these? 
Or  you?  or  I ? for  since  you  think  me  touch’d 
In  honor — what,  I would  not  aught  of 
false  — 

Is  not  our  cause  pure  ? and  whereas  I know 
Your  prowess,  Arac,  and  what  mother’s 
blood 

You  draw  from,  fight  ; you  failing,  I abide 
What  end  soever  : fail  you  will  not.  Still 
Take  not  his  life  : he  risk’d  it  for  my  own  ; 
His  mother  lives  : yet  whatso’er  you  do. 
Fight  and  fight  well  ; strike  and  strike  home. 
O dear 

Brothers,  the  woman’s  Angel  guards  you, 
you 

The  sole  men  to  be  mingled  with  our  cause. 
The  sole  men  we  shall  prize  in  the  after-time. 
Your  very  armor  hallow’d,  and  your  statues 
Rear’d,  sung  to,  when  this  gad-fly  brush’d 
aside. 

We  plant  a solid  foot  into  the  Time, 

And  mould  a generation  strong  to  move 
With  claim  on  claim  from  right  to  right,  till 
she 

Whose  name  is  yoked  with  children’s,  know 
herself : 

And  Knowledge  in  our  own  land  make  her 
free. 

And,  ever  following  those  two  crowned 
twins. 

Commerce  and  conquest,  shower  the  fiery 
grain 

Of  freedom  broadcast  over  all  that  orbs 
Between  the  Northern  and  the  Southern 
morn.” 

Then  came  a postscript  dash’d  across  the 
rest. 

“ See  that  there  be  no  traitors  in  your  camp  : 
We  seem  a nest  of  traitors  — none  to  trust : 
Since  our  arms  fail’d  — this  Egypt  plague  of 
men  ! 

Almost  our  maids  were  better  at  their  homes. 
Than  thus  man-girdled  here  : indeed  I think 
Our  chiefest  comfort  is  the  little  child 
Of  one  unworthy  mother ; which  she  left : 
She  shall  not  have  it  back  : the  child  shall 
grow 

To  prize  the  authentic  mother  of  her  mind. 

I took  it  for  an  hour  in  mine  own  bed 
This  morning : there  the  tender  orphan 
hands 

Felt  at  my  heart,  and  seem’d  to  charm  from 
thence 

The  wrath  I nursed  against  the  world  ; fare- 
well.” 


I ceased  ; he  said : “ Stubbwn,  but  she 
may  sit 

Upon  a king’s  right  hand  in  thunder-storms. 
And  breed  up  warriors  I See  now,  tho’ 
yourself 

Be  dazzled  by  the  wildfire  Love  to  sloughs 
That  swallow  common  sense,  the  spindling 
king. 

This  Gama  swamp’d  in  lazy  tolerance. 

When  the  man  wants  weight,  the  woman 
takes  it  up. 

And  topples  down  the  scales  ; but  this  is  fixt 
As  are  the  roots  of  earth  and  base  of  all  ; 
Man  for  the  field  and  woman  for  the  hearth  ; 
Man  for  the  sword  and  for  the  needle  she  : 
Man  with  the  head  and  woman  w'ith  the 
heart : 

Man  to  command  and  woman  to  obey  ; 

All  else  confusion.  Look  you  ! the  gray 
mare 

Is  ill  to  live  with,  when  her  whinny  shrills 
From  tile  to  sculler}^,  and  her  small  good 
man 

Shrinks  in  his  arm-chair  while  the  fires  of 
Hell 

Mix  with  his  hearth  : but  you  — she’s  yet  a 
colt  — 

Take,  break  her : strongly  groom’d  and 
straitly  curb’d 

She  might  not  rank  with  those  detestable 
That  let  the  bantling  scald  at  home,  and 
brawl 

Their  rights  or  wrongs  like  potherbs  in  the 
street. 

They  say  she ’s  comely ; there ’s  the  fairer 
chance : 

/like  her  none  the  less  for  rating  at  her  ! 
Besides,  the  woman  wed  is  not  as  w e. 

But  suffers  change  of  frame.  A lusty  brace 
Of  twins  may  weed  her  of  her  folly.  Boy, 
The  bearing  and  the  training  of  a child 
Is  w^oman’s  wisdom.” 

Thus  the  hard  old  king  : 
I took  my  leave,  for  it  was  nearly  noon  : 

I pored  upon  her  letter  which  I held. 

And  on  the  little  clause  “ take  not  his  life  ” : 
I mused  on  that  wild  morning  in  the  woods, 
And  on  the  “Follow,  follow,  thou  shalt 
win  ” : 

I thought  on  all  the  wrathful  king  had  said. 
And  how  the  strange  betrothment  was  to 
end  : 

Then  I remember’d  that  burnt  sorcerer’s 
curse 

That  one  should  fight  with  shadows  and 
should  fall  ; 

And  like  a flash  the  w^eird  affection  came  : 
King,  camp  and  college  turn’d  to  hollow 
shows ; ^ 

I seem’d  to  move  in  old  memorial  tilts. 

And  doing  battle  with  forgotten  ghosts. 

To  dream  myself  the  shadow  of  a dream  : 
And  ere  I woke  it  w'as  the  point  of  noon. 
The  lists  were  ready.  Empanoplied  and 
plumed 

We  enter’d  in,  and  waited,  fifty  there 
Opposed  to  fifty,  till  the  trumpet  blared 
At  the  barrier  like  a wild  horn  in  a land 


Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears 
‘ Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee.’  ” 


A MEDLEY. 


Of  echoes,  and  a moment,  and  once  more 
The  trumpet,  and  again  : at  which  the  storm 
Of  galloping  hoofs  bare  on  the  ridge  of  spears 
And  riders  front  to  front,  until  they  closed 
In  conflict  with  the  crash  of  shivering  points, 
And  thunder.  Yet  it  seem’d  a dream  ; I 
dream’d 

Of  fighting.  On  his  haunches  rose  the  steed, 
And  into  fiery  splinters  leapt  the  lance. 

And  out  of  stricken  helmets  sprang  the  fire.- 
A noble  dream  ! what  was  it  else  I saw  ? 

Part  sat  lik’e  rocks  ; part  reel’d  but  kept  their 
seats  ; ' . 

Part  roll’d  on  the  earth  and  rose  again  and 
drew ; 

Part  stumbled  mixt  with  floundering  horses. 
Down 

From  those  two  bulks  at  Arac’s  side,  and 
down 

From  Arac’s  arm,  as  from  a giant’s  flail. 

The  large  blows  rain’d,  as  here  and  every- 
where 

He  rode  the  mellay,  lord  of  the  ringing  lists. 
And  all  the  plain  — brand,  mace,  and  shaft, 
and  shield  — 

Shock’d,  like  an  iron-clanging  anvi’  bang’d 
With  hammers  ; till  I thought,  can  this  be  he 
From  Gama’s  dwarfish  loins?  if  this  be  sq. 
The  mother  makes  us  most  — and  in  my 
dream 

I glanced  aside,  and  saw  the  palace-front 
Alive  wdth  fluttering  scarfs  and  ladies’  eyes. 
And  highest,  among  the  statues,  statue-like. 
Between  a cymbal’d  Miriam  and  a Jael, 
With  Psyche’s  babe,  was  Ida  watching  us, 

A single  band  of  gold  about  her  hair. 

Like  a Saint’s  glory  up  in  heaven  : but  she 
No  saint  — inexorable  — no  tenderness  — 
Too  hard,  too  cruel : yet  she  sees  me  fight, 
Yea,  let  her  see  me  fall ! with  that  I drave 
Among  the  thickest  and  bore  down  a Prince, 
And  Cyril,  one.  Yea,  let  me  make  my  dream 
All  that  I would.  But  that  large-moulded 
man. 

His  visage  all  agrin  as  at  a wake. 

Made  at  me  thro’  the  press,  and,  staggering 
back 

With  stroke  on  stroke  the  horse  and  horse- 
man came 

As  comes  a pillar  of  electric  cloud. 

Flaying  the  roofs  and  sucking  up  the  drains. 
And  shadowing  down  the  champaig;i  till  it 
strikes 

On  a wood,  and  takes,  and  breaks,  and 
cracks,  and  splits. 

And  twists  the  grain  with  such  a roar  that 
Earth 

Reels,  and  the  herdsmen  cry  ; for  everything 
Gave  way  before  him  : only  Florian,  he 
Ihat  loved  me  closer  than  his  own  right  eye. 
Thrust  in  between  ; but  Arac  rode  him  dowm  : 
And  Cyril  seeing  it,  push’d  against  the 
Prince, 

With  Psyche’s  color  round  his  helmet,  tough. 
Strong,  supple,  sinew-corded,  apt  at  arms ; 
But  tougher,  heavier,  stronger,  he  that  smote 
And  threw  him  : last  I spurr’d ; I felt  my 
veins 


Stretch  with  fierce  heat ; a moment  hand  to 
hand. 

And  sword  to  sword,  and  horse  to  horse  we 
hung. 

Till  I struck  out  and  shouted ; the  blade 
glanced  ; 

I did  but  shear  a feather,  and  dream  and 
truth 

Flow’d  from  me  ; darkness  closed  me ; and 
I fell. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead  : 

She  nor  swoon’d,  nor  utter’d  cry  : 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

“ She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.” 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low. 
Call’d  him  worthy  to  be  loved. 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept. 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a nurse  of  ninety  years. 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears  — 

” Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee.” 


VI.  , 

My  dream  had  never  died  or  lived  again. 

As  in  some  mystic  middle  state  I lay  ; 

Seeing  I saw  not,  hearing  not  I heard  : 

Tho’,  if  I saw  not,  yet  they  told  me  all 
So  often  that  I speak  as  having  seen. 

For  so  it  seem’d,  or  so  they  said  to  me, 
That  all  things  grew  more  tragic  and  more 
strange ; 

That  w'hen  our  side  was  vanquish’d  and  my 
cause 

Forever  lost,  there  went  up  a great  cry. 

The  Prince  is  slain.  My  father  heard  and 
♦ ran 

In  on  the  lists,  and  there  unlaced  my  casque 
And  grovell’d  on  my  body,  and  after  him 
Came  Psyche,  .sorrowing  for  Aglaia. 

But  high  upon  the  palace  Ida  stood 
With  Psyche’s  babe  in  arm  : there  on  the 
roofs 

Like  that  great  dame  of  Lapidoth  she  sang. 

” Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n  : the 
seed 

The  little  seed  they  laugh’d  at  in  the  dark, 
Has  risen  and  cleft  the  soil,  and  grown  a 
bulk 

Of  spanless  girth,  that  lays  on  every  side 
A thousand  arms  and  rushes  to  the  Sun, 

” Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n : 
they  came : 

The  leaves  were  wet  with  w'omen’s  tears : 
they  heard 


THE  PRINCESS: 


104 

A noise  of  songs  they  would  not  understand  : 
They  mark’d  it  with  the  red  cross  to  the  fall, 
And  would  have  strown  it,  and  are  fall’n 
themselves. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n  : 
they  came. 

The  woodmen  with  their  axes  : lo  the  tree  ! 
But  we  will  make  it  fagots  for  the  hearth. 
And  shape  it  plank  and  beam  for  roof  and 
floor. 

And  boats  and  bridges  for  the  use  of  men. 

“ Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  have  fall’n : 
they  struck ; ^ 

With  their  own  blows  they  hurt  themselves, 
nor  knew 

There  dwelt  an  iron  nature  in  the  grain  : 

The  glittering  axe  was  broken  in  their  arms, 
Iheir  arms  were  shatter’d  to  the  shoulder 
blade. 

“Our  enemies  have  fall’n,  but  this  shall 
grow 

A night  of  Summer  from  the  heat,  a breadth 
Of  Autumn,  dropping  fruits  of  power ; and 
roll’d 

With  music  in  the  growing  breeze  of  Time, 
The  tops  shall  strike  from  star  to  star,  the 
fangs 

Shall  move  the  stony  bases  of  the  world. 

“ And  now,  O maids,  behold  our  sanctu- 
ary 

Is  violate,  our  laws  broken  : fear  we  not 
To  break  them  more  in  their  behoof,  whose 
arms 

Champion’d  our  cause  and  won  it  with  a day 
Blanch’d  in  our  annals,  and  perpetual  feast, 
When  dames  and  heroines  of  the  golden 
year 

Shall  strip  a hundred  hollows  bare  of  Spring, 
To  rain  an  April  of  ovation  round 
Their  statues,  borne  aloft,  the  three  : but 
come. 

We  will  be  liberal,  since  our  rights  are  won. 
Let  them  not  lie  in  the  tents  with  coarse 
mankind, 

111  nurses  ; but  descend,  and  proffer  these 
The  brethren  of  our  blood  and  cause,  that 
there 

Lie  bruised  and  maim’d,  the  tender  minis- 
tries 

Of  female  hands  and  hospitality.” 

She  spoke,  and  with  the  babe  yet  in  her 
arms, 

Descending,  burst  the  great  bronze  valves, 
and  led 

A hundred  maids  in  train  across  the  Park. 
Some  cowl’d,  and  some  bare-headed,  on  they 
came, 

Their  feet  in  flowers,  her  loveliest : by  them 
went 

The  enamor’d  air  sighing,  and  on  their  curls 
From  the  high  tree  the  blossom  wavering 
fell. 

And  over  them  the  tremulous  isles  of  light. 


Slided,  they  moving  under  shade : but 
Blanche 

At  distance  follow’d  : so  they  came  ; anon 
Thro’  open  field  into  the  lists  they  wound 
Timorously  ; and  as  the  leader  of  the  herd 
That  holds  a stately  fretwork  to  the  Sun 
And  follow’d  up  by  a hundred  airy  does,* 
Steps  with  a tender  foot,  light  as  on  air,* 

The  lovely,  lordly  creature  floated  on 
To  where  her  wounded  brethren  lay ; there 
stay’d  ; 

Knelt  on  one  knee, — the  child  on  one, — 
and  prest 

Their  hands,  and  call’d  them  dear  deliverers, 
And  happy  warriors  and  immortal  names, 
And  said,  “ You  shall  not  lie  in  the  tents  but 
here. 

And  nursed  by  those  for  whom  you  fought, 
and  served 

With  female  hands  and  hospitality.” 

Then,  whether  moved  by  this,  or  was  it 
chance. 

She  past  my  way.  Up  started  from  my  side 
The  old  lion,  glaring  with  his  whelpless  eye. 
Silent ; but  when  she  saw  me  lying  stark, 
Dishelm’d  and  mute,  and  motionlessly  pale, 
Cold  ev’n  to  her,  she  sigh’d  ; and  when  she 
saw 

The  haggard  father’s  face  and  reverend  beard 
Of  grisly  twine,  all  dabbled  with  the  blood 
Of  his  own  son,  shudder’d,  a twitch  of  pain 
Tortured  her  mouth,  and  o’er  her  forehead 
past 

A shadow,  and  her  hue  changed,  and^she 
said  : 

“ He  saved  my  life  : my  brother  slew  him 
for  it.” 

No  more  : at  which  the  king  in  bitter  scorn 
Drew  from  my  neck  the  painting  and  the 
tress. 

And  held  them  up : she  saw  them,  and  a day 
Rose  from  the  distance  on  her  memory, 
When  the  good  Queen,  her  mother,  shore 
the  tress 

With  kisses,  ere  tfie  days  of  Lady  Blanche  : 
And  then  once  more  she  look’d  at  my  pale 
face  : 

Till  understanding  all  the  foolish  work 
Of  Fancy,  and  the  bitter  close  of  all. 

Her  iron  will  was  broken  in  her  mind  ; 

Her  noble  heart  was  molten  in  her  breast ; 
She  bow’d,  she  set  the  child  on  the  earth ; 
she  laid 

A feeling  finger  on  my  brows,  and  presently 
“O  Sire,”  she  said,  “he  lives:  he  is  not 
dead  : 

O let  me  have  him  with  rny  brethren  here 
In  our  own  palace  : we  will  tend  on  him 
Like  one  of  these  ; if  so,  by'any  means, 

To  lighten  this  great  clog  of  thanks,  that 
make 

Our  progress  falter  to  the  woman’s  goal.” 

She  said  : but  at  the  happy  word  “ he 
lives,” 

My  father  stoop’d,  re-father’d  o’er  my 
wounds. 


A MEDLEY.  105 


So  those  two  foes  above  mv  fallen  life, 

With  brow  to  brow  like  night  and  evening 
mixt 

Their  dark  and  gray,  while  Psyche  ever  stole 
A little  nearer,  till  the  babe  that  by  us, 
Half-lapt  in  glowing  gauze  and  golden  brede. 
Lay  like  a new-fall’n  meteor  on  the  grass, 
Uncared  for,  spied  its  mother  and  began 
A blind  and  babbling  laughter,  and  to  dance 
Its  body,  and  reach  its  fatling  innocent  arms 
And  lazy  lingering  fingers.  She  the  appeal 
Brook’d  not,  but  clamoring  out  “ Mine  — 
mine  — not  yours,  ^ u-u  »» 

It  is  not  yours,  but  mine  : give  me  the  child. 
Ceased  all  on  tremble  : piteous  was  the  cry  : 
So  stood  the  unhappy  mother  open-mouth’d. 
And  turnM  each  face  her  way  : wan  was  her 
cheek 

With  hollow  watch,  herblooming  mantle  torn, 
Red  grief  and  mother’s  hunger  in  her  eye, 
And  down  dead-heavy  sank  her  curls,  and 
half 

The  sacred  mother’s  bosom,  panting,  burst 
The  laces  toward  her  babe  ; but  she  nor  cared 
Nor  knew  it,  clamoring  on,  till  Ida  heard. 
Look’d  up,  and  rising  slowly  from  me,  stood 
Erect  and  silent,  striking  with  her  glance 
The  mother,  me,  the  child ; but  he  that  lay 
Beside  us,  Cyril,  batter’d  as  he  was. 

Trail’d  himself  up  on  one  knee  : then  he 
drew 

Her  robe  to  meet  his  lips,  and  down  she 
look’d 

At  the  arm’d  man  sideways,  pitying,  as  it 
seem’d. 

Or  self-involved;  but  when  she  learnt  his 
face, 

Remembering  his  ill-omen’d  song,  arose 
Once  more  thro’  all  her  height,  and  o’er  him 
grew 

Tall  as  a figure  lengthen’d  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine,  and  he  said  : 

“ O fair  and  strong  and  terrible  ! Lioness 
That  with  your  long  locks  play  the  Lion’s 
mane  ! 

But  Love  and  Nature,  these  are  two  more 
terrible 

And  stronger.  See,  your  foot  is  on  our  necks. 
We  vanquish’d,  you  the  Victor  of  your  will. 
What  would  you  more  ? give  her  the  child  ! 
remain 

Orb’d  in  your  isolation  : he  is  dead, 

Or  all  as  dead  : henceforth  we  let  you  be  ; 
Win  you  the  hearts  of  women  ; and  beware 
Lest,  where  you  seek  the  common  love  of 
these, 

T he  common  hate  with  the  revolving  wheel 
Should  drag  you  down,  and  some  great 
Nemesis 

Break  from  a darken’d  future,  crown’d  with 
fire. 

And  tread  you  out  forever  : but  howsoe’er 
P'ix’d  in  yourself,  never  in  your  own  arms 
To  hold  your  own,  deny  not  hers  to  her. 

Give  her  the  child  ! O if,  I say,  you  keep 
One  pulse  that  beats  true  woman,  if  you  loved 
The  breast  that  fed  or  arm  that  dandled  you, 


I Or  own  one  part  of  sense  not  flint  to  prayer, 
Give  her  the  child  ! or  if  you  scorn  to  lay  it, 
Yourself,  in  hands  so  lately  claspt  with  yours, 
Or  speak  to  her,  your  dearest,  her  one  fault 
I The  tenderness,  not  yours,  that  could  not  kill, 

I Give  me  it ; I will  give  it  her.” 

I He  said : 

At  first  her  eye  with  slow  dilation  roll’d 
I Dry  flame,  she  listening;  after  sank  and  sank 
And,  into  mournful  twilight  mellowing,  dwelt 
Full  on  the  child ; she  took  it : “ Pretty  bud  ! 
Lily  of  the  vale  ! half-open’d  bell  of  the 
woods  ! 

Sole  comfort  of  my  dark  hour,  when  a world 
Of  traitorous  friend  and  broken  system  made 
No  purple  in  the  distance,  mystery. 

Pledge  of  a love  not  to  be  mine,  farewell ; 
These  men  are  hard  upon  us  as  of  old. 

We  two  must  part  : and  yet  how  fain  was  I 
To  dream  thy  cause  embraced  in  mine,  to 
think 

I might  be  something  to  thee,  when  I felt 
Thy  helpless  warmth  about  my  barren  breast 
In  the  dead  prime  : but  may  thy  mother  prove 
I As  true  to  thee  as  false,  false,  false  to  me  ! 
And,  if  thou  needs  must  bear  the  yoke,  I 
wish  it 

Gentle  as  freedom  ” — here  she  kissed  it : 
then  — 

“All  good  go  with  thee  I take  it.  Sir,”  and 
so 

Laid  the  soft  babe  in  his  hard-mailed  hands, 
Who  turn’d  half-round  to  Psyche  as  she 
sprang 

To  meet  it,  with  an  eye  that  swum  in  thanks  ; 
Then  felt  it  sound  and  whole  from  head  to 
foot. 

And  hugg’d  and  never  hugg’d  it  close  enough, 
And  in  her  hunger  mouth’d  and  mumbled  it. 
And  hid  her  bosom  with  it  ; after  that 
Put  on  more  calm  and  added  suppliantly : 

“We  two  were  friends  : I go  to  mine  own 
land 

Forever  : find  some  other : as  for  me 
I scarce  am  fit  for  your  great  plans  : yet 
speak  to  me. 

Say  one  soft  word  and  let  me  part  forgiven.” 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  rapt  upon  the  child. 
Then  Arac.  “Ida — ’sdeath  ! you  blame 
the  man  ; 

You  wrong  yourselves  — the  woman  is  so  hard 
Upon  the  woman.  Come,  a grace  to  me  ! 

I am  your  warrior  ; I and  mine  have  fought 
Your  battle  : kiss  her;  take  her  hand,  she 
weeps : 

’Sdeath  ! I would  sooner  fight  thrice  o’er 
than  see  it.” 

But  Ida  spoke  not,  gazing  on  the  ground, 
And  reddening  in  the  furrows  of  his  chin. 
And  moved  beyond  his  custom,  Gama  said : 

“ I ’ve  heard  that  there  is  iron  in  the  blood. 
And  I believe  it.  Not  one  word?  not  one  ? 
Whence  drew  you  this  steel  temper?  not 
from  me, 


io6  THE  PRINCESS: 


Not  from  your  mother  now  a saint  with  saints. 
She  said  you  had  a heart  — I heard  her  say 
it  — 

‘Our  Ida  has  a heart  ’ — just  ere  she  died  — 
* But  see  that  some  one  with  authority 
Be  near  her  still,’  and  I — I sought  for  one  — 
All  people  said  she  had  authority  — 

The  Lady  Blanche  : much  profit  I Not  one 
word ; 

No  ! tho’  your  father  sues  : see  how  you  stand 
Stiff  as  Lot’s  wife,  and  all  the  good  knights 
maim’d, 

I trust  that  there  is  no  one  hurt  to  death. 

For  your  wild  whim  : and  was  it  then  for  this, 
Was  it  for  this  we  gave  our  palace  up. 

Where  we  withdrew  from  summer  heats  and 
state. 

And  had  our  wine  and  chess  beneath  the 
planes, 

And  many  a pleasant  hour  with  her  that ’s 
gone, 

Ere  you  were  born  to  vex  us?  Is  it  kind  ? 
Speak  to  her  I say  : is  this  not  she  of  whom, 
When  first  she  came,  all  flush’d  you  said  to 
me 

Now  had  you  got  a friend  of  your  own  age. 
Now  could  you  share  your  thought  ; now 
should  men  see 

Two  women  faster  welded  in  one  love 
Than  pairs  of  wedlock  ; she  you  w'alk’d  with, 
she 

You  talk’d  with,  whole  nights  long,  up  in  the 
tower, 

Of  sine  and  arc,  spheroid  and  azimuth. 

And  right  ascension.  Heaven  knows  what ; 
and  now 

A word,  but  one,  one  little  kindly  w'ord. 
Notone  to  spare  her : out  upon  you,  flint ! 
You  love  nor  her,  nor  me,  nor  any  ; nay, 
You  shame  your  mother’s  judgment  too. 
Not  one  ? 

You  will  not?  w’ell — no  heart  have  you,  or 
such 

As  fancies  like  the  vermin  in  a nut 
Have  fretted  all  to  dust  and  bitterness.” 

So  said  the  small  king  moved  beyond  his 
wont. 

But  Ida  stood  nor  spoke,  drain’d  of  her 
force 

By  many  a varying  influence  and  so  long. 
Down  thro’  her  limbs  a drooping  languor 
wept : 

Her  head  a little  bent ; and  on  her  mouth 
A doubtful  smile  dwelt  like  a clouded  moon 
In  a still  water  : then  brake  out  my  sire 
Lifting  his  grim  head  from  my  wounds.  ” O 
you. 

Woman,  whom  w^e  thought  woman  even  now% 
And  were  half  fool’d  to  let  you  tend  our  son. 
Because  he  might  have  wish’d  it — but  we 
see 

The  accomplice  of  your  madness  unforgiven. 
And  think  that  you  might  mix  his  draught 
with  death, 

When  your  skies  change  again  : the  rougher 
hand 

Is  safer : on  to  the  tents ; take  up  the  Prince.” 


He  rose,  and  while  each  ear  was  prick’d  to 
attend 

A tempest,  thro’  the  cloud  that  dimm’d  her 
broke 

A genial  warmth  and  light  once  more,  and 
shone 

Thro’  glittering  drops  on  her  sad  friend. 

” Come  hither, 

0 Psyche,”  she  cried  out,  ‘‘  embrace  me, 

come, 

Quick  while  I melt ; make  reconcilement  sure 
With  one  that  cannot  keep  her  mind  an  hour  : 
Come  to  the  hollow  heart  they  slander  so  ! 
Kiss  and  befriends,  like  children  being  chid  ! 

1 seem  no  more  : I want  forgiveness  too  : 

1 should  have  had  to  do  with  none  but  maids, 
That  have  no  links  with  men.  Ah  false  but 
dear. 

Dear  traitor,  too  much  loved,  why?  — why? 
Yet  see. 

Before  these  kings  we  embrace  you  yet  once 
more 

With  all  forgiveness,  all  oblivion. 

And  trust,  not  love,  you  less. 

And  now,  O Sire, 
Grant  me  your  son,  to  nurse,  to  wait  upon 
him. 

Like  mine  own  brother.  For  my  debt  to  him. 
This  nightmare  weight  of  gratitude,  1 know 
it ; 

Taunt  me  no  more  : yourself  and  yours  shall 
have 

Free  adit ; we  will  scatter  all  our  maids 
Till  happier  times  each  to  her  proper  hearth  : 
What  use  to  keep  them  here  now?  grant  my 
prayer. 

Help,  father,  brother,  help;  speak  to  the  king: 
Thaw  this  male  nature  to  some  touch  of  that 
Which  kills  me  with  myself,  and  drags  me 
down 

From  my  fixt  height  to  mob  me  up  wdth  all 
The  soft  and  milky  rabble  of  womankind. 
Poor  weakling  ev’n  as  they  are.”^ 

Passionate  tears 
Follow’d  : the  king  replied  not : Cyril  said  : 
‘‘Your  brother.  Lady, — Florian, — ask  for 
him 

Of  your  great  head  — for  he  is  wounded  too — 
That  you  may  tend  upon  him  with  the 
prince.” 

“ Ay  so,”  said  Ida  with  a bitter  smile, 

“ Our  laws  are  broken  : let  him  enter  too.” 
Then  Violet,  she  that  sang  the  mournful  song. 
And  had  a cousin  tumbled  on  the  plain. 
Petition’d  too  for  him.  ‘‘  Ay  so,”  she  said, 
“ I stagger  in  the  stream  : I cannot  keep 
My  heart  an  eddy  from  the  brawling  hour  : 
We  break  our  laws  with  ease,  but  let  it  be.” 
“Ay  so?”  said  Blanche:  “Amazed  am  I to 
hear 

Your  Highness  : but  your  Highness  breaKS 
with  ease 

The  law  your  Highness  did  not  make : 
’t  was  I. 

I had  been  wedded  wife,  I knew  mankind. 
And  block’d  them  out ; but  these  men  came 
to  woo 

Your  Highness — verily  I think  to  win.” 


A MEDLEY, 


So  she,  and  turn’d  askance  a wintry  eye  : 
But  Ida  with  a voice,  that  like  a bell 
Toll’d  by  an  earthquake  in  a trembling 
tower, 

Rang  ruin,  answer’d  full  of  grief  and  scorn. 

“ Fling  our  doors  wide  1 all,  all,  not  one, 
but  all, 

Not  only  he,  but  by  my  mother’s  .soul. 
Whatever  man  lies  wounded,  friend  or  foe. 
Shall  enter,  if  he  will.  Let  our  girls  flit. 

Till  the  storm  die  ! but  had  you  stood  by  us. 
The  roar  that  breaks  the  Pharos  from  his 
base 

Had  left  us  rock.  She  fain  would  sting  us 
too. 

But  shall  not.  Pass,  and  mingle  with  your 
likes. 

We  brook  no  further  insult  but  are  gone.” 

She  turn’d ; the  very  nape  of  her  white 
neck 

Was  rosed  with  indignation  : but  the  Prince 
Her  brother  came ; the  king  her  father 
charm’d 

Her  wounded  soul  with  words  : nor  did  mine 
own 

Refuse  her  proffer,  lastly  gave  his  hand. 

Then  us  they  lifted  up,  dead  weights,  and 
bare 

Straight  to  the  doors : to  them  the  doors 
gave  way 

Groaning,  and  in  the  Vestal  entry  shriek’d 
The  virgin  marble  under  iron  heels  : 

And  on  they  moved  and  gain’d  the  hall,  and 
there 

Rested  : but  great  the  crush  was,  and  each 
base. 

To  left  and  right,  of  those  tall  columns 
drown’d 

In  silken  fluctuation  and  the  swarm 
Of  female  whisperers  : at  the  further  end 
Was  Ida  by  the  throne,  the  two  great  cats 
Close  by  her,  like  supporters  on  a shield, 
Bow-back’d  with  fear : but  in  the  centre 
stood 

The  common  men  with  rolling  eyes  ; amazed 
They  glared  upon  the  women,  and  aghast 
The  women  stared  at  these,  all  silent,  save 
When  armor  clash’d  or  jingled,  while  the  day. 
Descending,  struck  athwart  the  hall,  and  shot 
A flying  splendor  out  of  brass  and  steel. 

That  o’er  the  statues  leapt  from  head  to 
head. 

Now  fired  an  angry  Pallas  on  the  helm. 

Now  set  a wrathful  Dian’s  moon  on  flame. 
And  now  and  then  an  echo  started  up, 

And  shuddering  fled  from  room  to  room,  and 
died 

Of  fright  in  far  apartments. 

. . . Then  the  voice 

Of  Ida  sounded,  issuing  ordinance  : 

And  me  they  bore  up  the  broad  stairs,  and 
thro’ 

The  long-laid  galleries  past  a hundred  doors 
To  one  deep  chamber  shut  from  sound,  and 
due 


107 

To  languid  limbs  and  sickness-;  left  me  in  it ; 

And  others  otherwhere  they  laid  ; and  all 

That  afternoon  a sound  arose  of  hoof 

And  chariot,  many  a maiden  passing  home 

Till  happier  times ; but  some  were  left  of 
those 

Held  sagest,  and  the  great  lords  out  and  in, 

From  those  two  hosts  that  lay  beside  the 
walls. 

Walk’d  at  their  will,  and  everything  was 
changed. 

Ask  me  no  more  : the  moon  may  draw  the 
sea ; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take 
the  shape. 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 

But  O too  fond,  when  have  I answer’d  thee  ? 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  I 
give? 

I love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 

Yet,  O my  friend,  I will  not  have  thee  die  ! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I should  bid  thee  live  ; 

Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  : thy  fate  and  mine  are 
seal’d : 

I strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain  : 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  ; 

No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a touch  I yield  ; 

Ask  me  no  more. 


VII. 

So  was  their  sanctuary  violated. 

So  their  fair  college  turn’d  to  hospital ; 

At  first  with  all  confusion  : by  and  by 
Sweet  order  lived  again  with  other  laws : 

A kindlier  influence  reign’d  ; and  everywhere 
Low  voices  with  the  ministering  hand 
Hung  round  the  sick  : the  maidens  came, 
they  talk’d. 

They  sang,  they  read  : till  she  not  fair,  began 
To  gather  light,  and  she  that  was,  became 
Her  former  beauty  treble  ; and  to  and  fro 
With  books,  wdth  flowers,  with  Angel  offices. 
Like  creatures  native  unto  gracious  act. 

And  in  their  own  clear  element,  they  moved. 

But  sadness  on  the  soul  of  Ida  fell. 

And  hatred  of  her  w’eakness,  blent  wdth 
shame. 

Old  studies  fail’d  ; seldom  she  spoke ; but 
oft 

Clomb  to  the  roofs,  and  gazed  alone  for  hours 
On  that  disastrous  leaguer,  swarms  of  men 
Darkening  her  female  field : void  was  her 
use ; 

And  she  as  one  that  climbs  a peak  to  gaze 
O’er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a great  black 
cloud 

Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a wall  of  night. 
Blot  out  the  slope  of  sea  from  verge  to  shore. 
And  suck  the  blinding  splendor  from  the 
sand, 


io8  THE  PRINCESS  ; 


And  quenching  lake  by  lake  and  tarn  by  tarn 
Expunge  the  world ; so  fared  she  gazing 
there  ; 

So  blacken’d  all  her  world  in  secret,  blank 
And  waste  it  seem’d  and  vain  ; till  down  she 
came, 

And  found  fair  peace  once  more  among  the 
sick. 

And  twilight  dawn’d  ; and  morn  by  mom 
the  lark 

Shot  up  and  shrill’d  in  flickering  gyres,  but  I 
Lay  silent  in  the  muffled  cage  of  life  : 

And  twilight  gloom’d  ; and  broader-grown 
the  bowers 

Drew  the  great  night  into  themselves,  and 
Heaven, 

Star  after  star,  arose  and  fell ; but  I, 

Deeper  than  those  weird  doubts  could  reach 
me,  lay 

Quite  sunder’d  from  the  moving  Universe, 
Nor  knew  what  eye  was  on  me,  nor  the  hand 
That  nursed  me,  more  than  infants  in  their 
sleep. 

But  Psyche  tended  Florian  : with  her  oft 
Melissa  came  ; for  Blanche  had  gone,  but  left 
Her  child  among  us,  willing  she  should  keep 
Court-favor  : here  and  there  the  small  bright 
head, 

A light  of  healing,  glanced  about  the  couch. 
Or  thro’  the  parted  silks  the  tender  face 
Peep’d,  shining  in  upon  the  wounded  man 
With  blush  and  smile,  a medicine  in  them- 
selves 

To  wile  the  length  from  languorous  hours, 
and  draw 

The  sting  from  pain  ; nor  seem’d  it  strange 
that  soon 

He  rose  up  whole,  and  those  fair  charities 
Join’d  at  her  side  ; nor  stranger  seem’d  that 
hearts 

So  gentle,  so  employ’d,  should  close  in  love. 
Than  when  two  dew-drops  on  the  petal  shake 
To  the  same  sweet  air,  and  tremble  deeper 
down, 

And  slip  at  once  all-fragrant  into  one. 

Less  prosperously  the  second  suit  obtain’d 
At  first  with  Psyche.  Not  though  Blanche 
had  sworn 

That  after  that  dark  ni^ht  among  the  fields. 
She  needs  must  wed  him  for  her  own  good 
name  ; 

Not  tho’  he  built  upon  the  babe  restored  ; 
Nor  tho’  she  liked  him,  yielded  she,  but 
fear’d 

To  incense  the  Head  once  more  ; till  on  a day 
When  Cyril  pleaded,  Ida  came  behind 
Seen  but  of  Psyche  : on  her  foot  she  hung 
A moment,  and  she  heard,  at  which  her  face 
A little  flush’d,  and  she  past  on  ; but  each 
Assumed  from  thence  a half-consent  involved 
In  stillness,  plighted  troth,  and  were  at  peace. 

Nor  only  these  : Love  in  the  sacred  halls 
Held  carnival  at  will,  and  flying  struck 
With  showers  of  random  sweet  on  maid  and 
man. 


Nor  did  her  father  cease  to  press  my  claim, 
Nor  did  mine  own  now  reconciled;  nor  yet 
Did  those  twdn  brothers,  risen  again  and 
whole  ; 

Nor  Arac,  satiate  with  his  victory. 

But  I lay  still,  and  with  me  oft  she  sat : 
Then  came  a change  ; for  sometimes  I would 
catch 

Her  hand  in  wild  delirium,  gripe  it  hard, 
And  fling  it  like  a viper  off,  and  shriek 
“ You  are  not  Ida  ” ; clasp  it  once  again, 
And  call  her  Ida,  tho’  I knew  her  not, 

And  call  her  sweet,  as  if  in  irony. 

And  call  her  hard  and  cold  which  seem’d  a 
truth  : 

And  still  she  fear’d  that  I should  lose  my 
mind, 

And  often  she  believed  that  I should  die : 
Till  out  of  long  frustration  of  her  care, 

And  pensive  tendance  in  the  all-weary  noons, 
And  watches  in  the  dead,  the  dark,  when 
clocks 

Throbb’d  thunder  thro’  the  palace  floors,  or 
call’d 

On  flying  Time  from  all  their  silver  tongues — 
And  out  of  memories  of  her  kindlier  days, 
And  sidelong  glances  at  my  father’s  grief. 
And  at  the  happy  lovers  heart  in  heart  — 
And  out  of  hauntings  of  my  spoken  love. 
And  lonely  listenings  to  my  mutter’d  dream, 
And  often  feeling  of  the  helpless  hands, 

And  wordless  broodings  on  the  wasted  cheek — 
From  all  a closer  interest  flourish’d  up. 
Tenderness  touch  by  touch,  and  last,  to  these, 
Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier  ; frail  at  first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself. 

But  such  as  gather’d  color  day  by  day. 

Last  I woke  sane,  but  wellnigh  close  to 
death 

For  weakness  : it  was  evening : silent  light 
Slept  on  the  painted  walls,  wherein  were 
wrought 

Two  grand  designs  : for  on  one  side  arose 
The  women  up  in  wild  revolt,  and  storm’d 
Afthe  Oppian  law\  Titanic  shapes,  they 
cramm’d 

The  forum,  and  half-crush’d  among  the  rest 
A dwarflike  Cato  cower’d.  On  the  other  side 
Hortensia  spoke  against  the  tax ; behind, 

A train  of  dames  : by  axe  and  eagle  sat, 
With  all  their  foreheads  drawn  in  Roman 
scowls, 

And  half  the  wolf’s-milk  curdled  in  their 
veins. 

The  fierce  triumvirs;  and  before  them  paused 
Hortensia,  pleading ; angry  was  her  fUce. 

I saw  the  forms  : I knew  not  where  I was  : 
They  did  but  seem  as  hollow  shows ; nor 
more 

Sweet  Ida  : palm  to  palm  she  sat : the  dew 
Dwelt  in  her  eyes,  and  softer  all  her  shape 
And  rounder  show’d  ; I moved  : I sigh’d  : a 
touch 

Came  round  my  wrist,  and  tears  upon  my 
hand  : 


A medley. 


109 


Then  all  for  languor  and  self-pity  ran 
Mine  down  my  face,  and  with  what  life  I had, 
And  like  a flower  that  cannot  all  unfold. 

So  drench’d  it  is  with  tempest,  to  the  sun. 
Yet,  as  it  may,  turns  toward  him,  I on  her 
Fixt  my  faint  eyes,  and  utter’d  whisperiugly  : 

“ If  you  be,  what  I think  you,  some  sweet 
dream, 

I would  but  ask  you  to  fulfil  yourself : 

But  if  you  be  that  Ida  whom  I knew, 

I ask  you  nothing  : only,  if  a dream. 

Sweet  dream,  be  perfect.  I shall  die  to- 

Stoop  down  and  seem  to  kiss  me  ere  1 die. 

I could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in  trance. 
That  hears  his  burial  talk’d  of  by  his  friends. 
And  cannot  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make  ore 
sign. 

But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom.  She  turn  d ; 
she  paused ; 

She  stoop’d  ; and  out  of  languor  leapt  a cry ; 
Leapt  fiery  Passion  from  the  brinks  of  death  ; 
And  I believed  that  in  the  living  world 
My  spirit  closed  with  Ida’s  at  the  lips  ; 

Till  back  I fell,  and  from  mine  arms  she  rose 
Glowing  all  over  noble  shame  ; and  all 
Her  falser  self  slipt  from  her  like  a robe. 

And  left  her  woman,  lovelier  in  her  mood 
Than  in  her  mould  that  other,  when  she  came 
From  barren  deeps  to  conquer  all  with  love  ; 
And  down  the  streaming  crystal  dropt ; and 
she 

Far-fleeted  by  the  purple  island -sides, 

Naked,  a double  light  in  air  and  wave. 

To  meet  her  Graces,  where  they  deck’d  her 
out 

For  worship  without  end  ; nor  end  of  mine. 
Stateliest,  for  thee  ! but  mute  she  glided 
forth. 

Nor  glanced  behind  her,  and  I sank  and  slept. 
Fill’d  thro’  and  thro’  with  Love,  a happy 
sleep. 

Deep  in  the  night  I woke : she,  near  me, 
held 

A volume  of  the  Poets  of  her  land  : 

There  to  herself,  all  in  low  tones,  she  read. 

“ Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the 
white ; 

Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk  ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fin  in  the  porphyry  font : 
The  firefly  wakens : waken  thou  with  me. 

“ Now  droops  the  milkwhite  peacock  like 
a ghost. 

And  like  a ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

“ Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars. 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

“Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and 
leaves 

A shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 


“ Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up. 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 

So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me.” 

I heard  her  turn  the  page ; she  found  a 
small 

Sweet  Idyl,  and  once  more,  as  low,  she  read  : 

“ Come  down,  O maid,  from  yonder  moun- 
tain height : 

What  pleasure  lives  in  height  (the  shepherd 
sang) 

In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills? 
But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and 
cease 

To  glide  a sunbeam  by  the  blasted  Pine, 

To  sit  a star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 

And  come,  for  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come, 
For  Love  is  of  the  valley,  come  thou  down 
And  find  him  ; by  the  happy  threshold,  he, 
Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize. 
Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats. 

Or  foxlike  in  the  vine  ; nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver 
Horns, 

Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 
To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors : 

But  follow  ; let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley  ; let  the  wild 
Lean-headed  Eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 
The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 
spill 

Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water- 
smoke. 

That  like  a broken  purpose  waste  in  air  : 

So  waste  not  thou ; but  come  ; for  all  the 
vales 

Await  thee  ; azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 
Arise  to  thee  ; the  children  call,  and  I 
Thy  shepherd  pipe,  and  sweet  is  every  sound. 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet ; 
Myriads  of  rivulets  hurrying  thro’  the  lawn. 
The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 

And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees.” 

So  she  low-toned ; while  with  shut  eyes  I 
lay 

Listening  ; then  look’d.  Pale  was  the  perfect 
face ; 

The  bosom  with  long  sighs  labor’d  ; and  meek 
Seem’d  the  full  lips,  and  mild  the  luminous 
eyes. 

And  the  voice  trembled  and  the  hand.  She 
said 

Brokenly,  that  she  knew  it,  she  had  fail’d 
In  sweet  humility  ; had  fail’d  in  all ; 

That  all  her  labor  was  but  as  a block 
Left  in  the  quarry  ; but  she  still  were  loath. 
She  still  were  loath  to  yield  herself  to  one, 
That  wholly  scorn’d  to  help  their  equal 
rights 

Against  the  sons  of  men,  and  barbarous  laws. 
She  pray’d  me  not  to  judge  their  cause  from 
her 

That  wrong’d  it,  sought  far  less  for  truth  than 
power 


no 


THE  PRINCESS: 


In  knowledge  : something  wild  within  her 
breast, 

A greater  than  all  knowledge,  beat  her  down. 
And  she  had  nursed  me  there  from  week  to 
week  : 

Much  had  she  learnt  in  little  time.  In  part 
It  was  ill-counsel  had  misled  the  girl 
To  vex  true  hearts  : yet  was  she  but  a girl  — 
“Ah  fool,  and  made  myself  a Queen  of 
farce  ! 

When  comes  another  such  ? never,  I think 
Till  the  Sun  drop  dead  from  the  signs.” 

Her  voice 

Choked,  and  her  forehead  sank  upon  her 
hands. 

And  her  great  heart  through  all  the  faultful 
Past 

Went  sorrowing  in  a pause  I dared  not 
break  ; 

Till  notice  of  a change  in  the  dark  world 
Was  lisp’d  about  the  acacias,  and  a bird, 
That  early  woke  to  feed  her  little  ones, 

Sent  from  a dewy  breast  a cry  for  light ; 

She  moved,  and  at  her  feet  the  volume  fell. 

“ Blame  not  thyself  too  much,”  I said,  “ nor 
blame 

Too  much  the  sons  of  men  and  barbarous 
laws ; 

These  were  the  rough  ways  of  the  world  till 
now. 

Henceforth  thou  hast  a helper,  me,  that  know 
The  woman’s  cause  is  man’s  : they  rise  or 
sink 

Together,  dwarf'd  or  godlike,  bond  or  free  : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with 
man 

His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to  one 

Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her  hands 
If  she  be  small,  slight-natured,  miserable, 
How  shall  men  grow?  but  work  no  more 
alone  ! 

Our  place  is  much  : as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding  her  — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up  but  drag  her 
down  — 

Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her  — let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  undevelopt  man. 

But  diverse  : could  we  make  her  as  the  man. 
Sweet  love  were  slain  : his  dearest  bond  is 
this. 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference. 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow  ; 
The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  rnan  ; 
He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height. 
Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the 
world  ; 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward 
care. 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

I.ike  perfect  music  unto  noble  words  ; 

And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  1 ime. 


Sit  side  by  side,  full-summ’d  in  all  their 
powers. 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 
Self-reverent  each  and  reverencing  each. 
Distinct  in  individualities. 

But  like  each  other  ev’n  as  those  who  love. 
Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men  ; 
Then  reign  the  world’s  great  bridals,  chaste 
and  calm : 

Then  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 
May  these  things  be  ! ” 

Sighing  she  spoke,  “ I fear 

They  will  not.” 

“ Dear,  but  let  us  type  them  now 
In  our  own  lives,  and  this  proud  watchword 
rest 

Of  equal  ; seeing  either  sex  alone 
Is  half  itself,  and  in  true  marriage  lies 
Nor  equal,  nor  unequal : each  fulfils 
Defect  in  each,  and  always  thought  in  thought. 
Purpose  in  purpose,  will  in  will,  they  grow, 
The  single  pure  and  perfect  animal. 

The  two- cell’d  heart  beating,  with  one  full 
stroke. 

Life.” 

And  again  sighing  she  spoke  : “ A dream 
That  once  was  mine  ! what  woman  taught 
you  this  ?” 


“Alone,”  I said,  “from  earlier  than  I know. 
Immersed  in  rich  foreshadow  ings  of  the  world, 
I loved  the  woman  : he,  that  doth  not,  lives 
A drowning  life,  besotted  in  sweet  self. 

Or  pines  in.sad  experience  worse  than  death. 
Or  keeps  his  w'ing’d  affections  dipt  with 


crime  : 

Yet  was  there  one  thro’  whom  I loved  her, 
one 

Not  learned,  save  in  gracious  household  w-ays. 
Not  perfect,  nay,  but  full  of  tender  wants. 
No  Angel,  but  a dearer  being,  all  dipt 
In  Angel  instincts,  breathing  Paradise, 
Interpreter  between  the  Gods  and  men, 

Who  look’d  all  native  to  her  place,  and  yet 
On  tiptoe  seem’d  to  touch  upon  a sphere 
Too  gross  to  tread,  and  all  male  minds  per- 
force 

Sway’d  to  her  from  their  orbits  as  they  moved. 
And  girdled  her  with  music.  Happy  he 
With  such  a mother  ! faith  in  womankind 
Beats  with  his  blood,  and  trust  in  all  things 

Comes  easy  to  him,  and  tho’  he  trip  and  fall 
He  shall  not  blind  his  soul  with  clay.” 

“ But  I, 

Said  Ida,  tremulously,  “ so  all  unlike  -— 

It  seems  you  love  to  cheat  yourself  with 

This  mother  is  your  model.  I have  heard 
Of  your  strange  doubts  : they  well  might  be  . 

A mockery  to  my  own  self.  Never,  Prince  , 

You  cannot  love  me.”  ,,  t -j 

“ Nay  but  thee,”  I said, 
“ From  yearlong  poring  on  thy  pictured  eyes, 
Ere  seen  I loved,  and  loved  thee  seen,  and 
saw  . 

Thee  woman  thro’  the  crust  of  iron  moods 


A MEDLEY. 


zii 


That  mask’d  thee  from  men’s  reverence  up, 
and  forced 

Sweet  love  on  pranks  of  saucy  boyhood  : now, 
Giv’n  back  to  life,  to  life  indeed,  thro’  thee. 
Indeed  I love:  the  new  day  comes,  the  light 
Dearer  for  night,  as  dearer  thou  for  faults 
Lived  over:  lift  thine  eyes;  my  doubts  are 
dead. 

My  haunting  sense  of  hollow  shows : the 
change. 

This  truthful  change  in  thee  has  kill’d  it. 
Dear, 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine. 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half- world  ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ; breathe  upon  my 
brows ; 

In  that  fine  air  I tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to-come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.  For- 
give me, 

I waste  my  heart  in  signs  : let  be.  My  bride. 
My  wife,  my  life.  O we  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end. 

And  so  thro’  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.  Indeed  I love  thee : 
come. 

Yield  thyself  up  : my  hopes  and  thine  are  one  : 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself; 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine  and,  trust  to 
me.” 


CONCLUSION.  ■ 


And  yet  to  give  the  story  as  it  rose, 

I moved  as  in  a strange  diagonal, 

And  maybe  neither  pleased  myself  northern. 

But  Lilia  pleased  me,  for  she  took  no  part 
In  our  dispute  : the  sequel  of  the  tale 
Had  touch’d  her ; and  she  sat,  she  pluck’d 
the  grass. 

She  flung  it  from  her,  thinking  : last,  she  fixt 
A showery  glance  upon  her  aunt,  and  said, 
“You  — tell  us  what  we  are  ” who  might 
have  told. 

For  she  was  cramm’d  with  theories  out  of 
books, 

But  that  there  rose  a shout : the  gates  w'ere 
closed 

At  sunset,  and  the  crowd  were  swarming 
now. 

To  take  their  leave,  about  the  garden  rails. 

So  I and  some  went  out  to  these : we 
climb’d 

The  slope  to  Vivian-place,  and  turning  saw 
The  happy  valleys,  half  in  light,  and  half 
Far-shadowing  from  the  west,  a land  of 
peace ; 

Gray  halls  alone  among  the  massive  groves  ; 
Trim  hamlets ; here  and  there  a rustic  tower 
Half-lost  in  belts  of  hop  and  breadths  of 
wheat ; 

The  shimmering  glimpses  of  a stream  ; the 
seas ; 

A red  sail,  or  a white  ; and  far  beyond. 
Imagined  more  than  seen,  the  skirts  of 
France. 


So  closed  our  tale,  of  which  I give  you  all 
The  random  scheme  as  wildly  as  it  rose  : 

The  words  are  mostly  mine ; for  when  we 
ceased 

There  came  a minute’s  pause,  and  Walter 
said, 

“ I wish  she  had  not  yielded  ! ” then  to  me, 

“ What,  if  you  drest  it  up  poetically  ! ” 

So  pray’d  the  men,  the  women  : I gave  assent : 
Yet  how  to  bind  the  scatter’d  scheme  of  seven 
Together  in  one  sheaf?  What^style  could 
suit? 

The  men  required  that  I should  give  through- 
out 

The  sort  of  mock-heroic  gigantesque, 

With  which  we  banter’d  little  Lilia  first : 

The  women  — and  perhaps  they  felt  their 
power. 

For  something  in  the  ballads  which  they  sang. 
Or  in  their  silent  influence  as  they  sat. 

Had  ever  seem’d  to  wrestle  with  burlesque. 
And  drove  us,  last,  to  quite  a solemn  close  — 
They  hated  banter,  wish’d  for  something  real, 
A gallant  fight,  a noble  princess  — why 
Not  make  her  true-heroic  — true-sublime  ? 
Or  all,  they  said,  as  earnest  as  the  close  ? 
Which  yet  with  such  a framework  scarce  could 
be. 

Then  rose  a little  feud  betwixt  the  two. 
Betwixt  the  mockers  and  the  realists ; 

And  I,  betwixt  them  both,  to  please  them 
both, 


“ Look  there,  a garden  ! ” said  my  college 
friend. 

The  Tory  member’s  elder  son,  “and  there  ! 
God  bless  the  narrow  sea  which  keeps  her  off. 
And  keeps  our  Britain,  whole  within  herself, 
A nation  yet,  the  rulers  and  the  ruled  — 
Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a faith. 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves  have 
made, 

Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when  we 
will. 

Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the  crowd  — 
But  yonder,  whiff!  there  comes  a sudden 
heat. 

The  gravest  citizen  seems  to  lose  his  head. 
The  king  is  scared,  the  soldier  will  not  fight. 
The  little  boys  begin  to  shoot  and  stab, 

A kingdom  topples  over  with  a shriek 
Like  an  old  woman,  and  down  rolls  the  world 
In  mock  heroics  stranger  than  our  own  ; 
Revolts,  republics,  revolutions,  most 
No  graver  than  a school-boys’  barring  out ; 
Too  comic  for  the  solemn  things  they  are. 
Too  solemn  for  the  comic  touches  in  them. 
Like  our  wild  Princess  with  as  wise  a dream 
As  some  of  theirs  — God  bless  the  narrow 
seas  ! 

I wish  they  were  a whole  Atlantic  broad.” 

“Have  patience,”  I replied,  “ourselves 
are  full 

Of  social  wrong  ; and  maybe  wildest  dreams 


II2 


THE  PRINCESS  : A MEDLEY. 


Are  but  the  needful  preludes  of  the  truth  : 
For  me,  the  genial  day,  the  happy  crowd. 
The  sport  half-science,  fill  me  with  a faith. 
This  fine  old  world  of  ours  is  but  a child 
Yet  in  the  go-cart.  Patience  ! Give  it  time 
To  learn  its  limbs ; there  is  a hand  that 
guides.” 

In  such  discourse  we  gain’d  the  garden  rails, 
And  there  we  saw  Sir  Walter  where  he  stood. 
Before  a tower  of  crimson  holly-oaks. 

Among  six  boys,  head  Under  head,  and  look’d 
No  little  lily-handed  Baronet  he, 

A great  broad-shoulder’d  genial  Englishman, 
A lord  of  fat  prize-oxen  and  of  sheep, 

A raiser  of  huge  melons  and  of  pine, 

A patron  of  some  thirty  charities, 

A pamphleteer  on  guano  and  on  grain, 

A quarter-sessions  chairman,  abler  none  ; 
Fair-hair’d  and  redder  than  a windy  mom  ; 
Now  shaking  hands  with  him,  now  him,  of 
those 

That  stood  the  nearest  — now  address’d  to 
speech  — 

Who  spoke  few  words  and  pithy,  such  as 
closed 

Welcome,  farewell,  and  welcome  for  the  year 
To  follow  : a shout  rose  again,  and  made 
The  long  line  of  the  approaching  rookery 
swerve 

From  the  elms,  and  shook  the  branches  of 
the  deer 


From  slope  to  slope  thro’  distant  ferns,  and 
rang 

Beyond  the  bourn  of  sunset ; O,  a shout 
More  joyful  than  the  city-roar  that  hails 
Premier  or  king  I Why  should  • not  these 
great  Sirs 

Give  up  their  parks  some  dozen  times  a year 
To  let  the  people  breathe  t So  thrice  they 
cried, 

I likewise,  and  in  groups  they  stream’d  away. 

But  we  went  back  to  the  Abbey,  and  sat 
on, 

So  much  the  gathering  darkness  charm’d  : 
we  sat 

But  spoke  not,  rapt  in  nameless  reverie. 
Perchance  upon  the  future  man  : the  walls 
Blacken’d  about  us,  bats  wheel’d,  and  owls 
whoop’d. 

And  gradually  the  powers  of  the  night, 

That  range  above  the  region  of  the  wind. 
Deepening  the  courts  of  twilight  broke  them 

Thro’  all  the  silent  spaces  of  the  worlds, 
Beyond  all  thought  into  the  Heaven  of 
Heavens. 


Last  little  Lilia,  rising  quietly, 

Disrobed  the  glimmering  statue  of  Sir  Ralph 
From  tfyase  rich  silks,  and  home  well-pleased 
we  went. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


113 


IN  MEMORI  AM. 


Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 
Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 
Believing  where  we  cannot  prove  ; 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 
Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute  ; 
Thou  madest  Death  ; and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 

Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why  ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 
And  thou  hast  made  him  : thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how  ; 
Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

We  have  but  faith  : we  cannot  know ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 

A beam  in  darkness ; let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  frorn  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 

That  mind  and  soul,  according  well. 
May  make  one  music  as  before. 

But  vaster.  We  are  fools  and  slight ; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear  : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear  ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 

Forgive  what  seem’d  my  sin  in  me  ; 

What  seem’d  my  worth  since  I began  ; 
For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 

And  not  from  man,  O Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I found  so  fair. 

I trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 
I find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a wasted  youth  ; 

Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth. 
And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

1849. 


IN  MEMORIAM 

A.  H.  H. 

OBI  IT  MDCCCXXXIII. 


I HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 

That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years. 

And  find  in  loss  a gain  to  match  ? 

Or  reach  a hand  thro’  time  to  catch 
The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 

Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown’d. 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss  ; 

Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss. 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 

“ Behold  the  man  that  lovad  and  lost 
But  all  he  was  is  overworn.” 

II. 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  underlying  dead. 

Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head. 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again. 

And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock  ; 

And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 
Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 

O not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom. 

Who  changest  not  in  any  gale. 

Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 
To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom  ; 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree. 

Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 

I seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 
And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 

III. 

O SORROW,  cruel  fellowship, 

O Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 

O sweet  and  bitter  in  a breath. 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip? 

“ The  stars,”  she  whispers,  “ blindly  run  ; 
A web  is  wov’n  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a cry. 

And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  ; 


1 1 4 IN  ME  MORI  A M. 


“ And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands,  — 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 

A hollow  echo  of  my  own,  — 

A hollow  form  with  empty  hands.” 

And  shall  I take  a thing  so  blind, 
Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good; 

Or  crush  her,  like  a vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind? 

IV. 

To  Sleep  I give  my  powers  away ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark ; 

I sit  within  a helmless  bark. 

And  with  my  heart  I muse  and  say : 

0 heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 

That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire 

What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low?  ” 

Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost. 

Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 
That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken’d  eyes  ; 

With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 
“Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss.” 

V. 

1 SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a sin 
To  put  in  words  the  grief  I feel ; 

For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 

A use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 

The  sad  mechanic  exercise. 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

In  words,  like  weeds,  I ’ll  wrap  me  o’er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 
Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 

VI. 

One  writes,  that  “ Other  friends  remain,” 
That  “ Loss  is  common  to  the  race,”  — 
And  common  is  the  commonplace. 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 

Too  common  ! Never  morning  wore 
To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 

O father,  wheresoe’er  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 

A shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  be  done, 
Hath  still’d  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O mother,  praying  God  will  save 
Thy  sailor,  — while  thy  head  is  bow’d. 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 
Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 


Ye  know  no  more  than  I who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well ; 

Who  mused  on  all  I had  to  tell. 

And  something  w'ritten,  something  thought ; 

Expecting  still  his  advent  home  : 

And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O somew'here,  meek  unconscious  dove, 

That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair  ; 

And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father’s  chimney  glows 
In  expectation  of  a guest ; 

And  thinking  “ This  wall  please  him  best,” 
She  takes  a riband  or  a rose ; 

For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  w'ith  the  thought  her  color  burns  ; 
And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a ringlet  right ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn’d,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown’d  in  passing  thro’  the  ford. 

Or  kill’d  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good? 

To  her,  ]!erpetual  maidenhood, 

And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 

VII. 

Dark  house,  by  w-hich  once  more  I stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  waiting  for  a hand, 

A hand  that  can  be  clasp’d  no  more,  — 
Behold  me,  for  I cannot  sleep, 

And  like  a guilty  thing  I creep 
At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 

He  is  not  here  ; but  far  away 
The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 

And  ghastly  thro’  the  drizzling  rain 
On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 

VIII. 

A HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  w'ell, 

Who  ’lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell, 
And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home  ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 

And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 
The  chambers  emptied  of  delight : 

So  find  I every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  w'ere  wont  to  meet, 

The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 


Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains.’* 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 
In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 
Which  once  she  foster’d  up  with  care  ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

0 my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet 

But  since  it  pleased  a vanish’d  eye, 

1 go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 

That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 

IX. 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur’s  loved  remains, 
Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o’er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ; a favorable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror’d  mast,  and  lead 
Thro’  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 

All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro’  early  light 
Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 
Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow ; 
Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now. 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow’d  race  be  run  ; 

Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 

X. 

I HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel : 

I hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night ; 

I see  the  cabin-window  bright ; 

I see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 

Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife. 

And  travell’d  men  from  foreign  lands ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a vanish’d  life. 

So  bring  him  : we  have  idle  dreams  : 

This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  : O to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod. 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 
The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 
Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine  ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp’d  in  mine 
Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 

XI. 

is  the  mom  without  a sound. 

Calm  as  to  suit  a calmer  grief. 


And  only  thro’  the  faded  leaf 
The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 
That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 

Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crow'ded  farms  and  lessening  towers. 
To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air. 

These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall ; 

And  in  my  heart,  if  cairn  at  all. 

If  any  calm,  a calm  despair  : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep,  ^ 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest. 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 
Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 

XII. 

Lo,  as  a dove  when  tap  she  springs 
To  bear  thro’  Heaven  a tale  of  woe. 

Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 
The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings  ; 

Like  her  I go  ; I cannot  stay  ; 

I leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 

A weight  of  nerves  without  a mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 

O’er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large. 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  slcies. 

And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge. 

And  saying,  “ Comes  he  thus,  my  friend? 

Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care? ” 

And  circle  moaning  in  the  air  : 

“ Is  this  the  end ? Is  this  the  end? ” 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 
About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn. 

That  I have  been  an  hour  aw^ay. 

XIII. 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 

And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feels 
Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  the.se  ; 

Which  weep  a loss  forever  new, 

A void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed  ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  have  prest  and 
clos’d. 

Silence,  till  I be  silent  too. 

Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice. 

An  awful  thought,  a life  removed, 

The  human-hearted  man  I loved, 

A Spirit,  not  a breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 

I do  not  suffer  in  a dream  ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem. 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears; 


ii6 


IN  MEMORJAM. 


My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails, 
As  tho’  they  brought  but  merchants’  bales, 
And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 

XIV. 

If  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 

That  thou  hadst  touch’d  the  land  to-day, 
And  I went  down  unto  the  quay. 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe. 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank. 
And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know ; 

And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I held  as  half-divine  ; 

Should  strike  a sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a thousand  things  of  home  ; 

And  I should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 

And  how  my  life  had  droop’d  of  late, 

And  he  should  sorrow  o’er  my  state 
And  marvel  what  possess’d  my  brain ; 

And  I perceived  no  touch  of  change. 

No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame. 

But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 

XV. 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise 
And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day ; 

The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl’d  away. 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 

The  forest  crack’d,  the  w^aters  curl’d. 

The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea  ; 

And  wildly  dash’d  on  tower  and  tree 
The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 

And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 
That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a plane  of  molten  glass, 

I scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud ; 

And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so. 

The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 
Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a laboring  breast. 

And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A looming  bastion  fringed  with  tire. 

XVI. 

W HAT  words  are  these  have  fall’n  from  me  ? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a single  breast. 

Or  sorrew  such  a changeling  be  ? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 
The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm ; 
But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 
In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 


That  holds  the  shadow  of  a lark 
Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a heaven  ? 

Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 
Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a craggy  shelf, 

And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink? 

And  stunn’d  me  from  my  power  to  think 
And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself ; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 
Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new. 

And  flashes  into  false  and  true. 

And  mingles  all  without  a plan  ? 

XVII. 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for : such  a breeze 
Compell’d  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 
To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I in  spirit  saw  thee  move 
Thro’  circles  of  the  bounding  sky. 

Week  after  week  : the  days  go  by : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  1 love. 

Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may’st  roam. 

My  blessing,  like  a line  of  light, 

Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night. 

And  like  a beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 
Mid- ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark ; 

And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 
Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 

The  dust  of  him  I shall  not  see 
Till  all  my  widow’d  race  be  run. 

XVIII. 

’T  IS  well ; *tis  something ; we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid. 

And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 
The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

’T  is  little  ; but  it  looks  in  truth 
As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 
And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 

Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 
That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep. 

And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev’n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 

I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart,,  ^ 

Would  breathing  through  his  lips  impart 
The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain. 

And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find. 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XIX. 

The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 
The  darken’d  heart  that  beat  no  more ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a day  the  Severn  fills ; 

The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 

And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a silence  in  the  hills. 

The  Wye  is  hush’d  nor  moved  along, 

And  hush’d  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill’d  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  .wooded  walls ; 

My  deeper  anguish  also  falls. 

And  1 can  speak  a little  then. 

XX. 

The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 

That  breathe  a thousand  tender  vows. 

Are  but  as  servants  in  a house 
Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is. 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind  : 

“ It  will  be  hard,”  they  say,  “to  find 
Another  service  such  as  this.” 

My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 

That  out  of  words  a comfort  win  ; 

But  there  are  other  griefs  within. 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze: 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 
Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 

And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath. 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none. 

So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

“ How  good  ! how  kind  ! and  he  is  gone.’* 

XXI. 

I SING  to  him  that  rests  below. 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 

I take  the  grasses  of  the  grave. 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then. 

And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak  : 
This  fellow  would  make  weakness  weak, 
And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men.” 

Another  answers,  “ Let  him  be. 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
lhat  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 
The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy.” 

A third  is  wroth,  “ Is  this  an  hour 
For  private  sorrow’s  barren  song. 

When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 
The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power? 


117 

“ A time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon. 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 
Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon?” 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 

I do  but  sing  because  I must. 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing  : 

And  one  is  glad  ; her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  ; 

And  one  is  sad  ; her  note  is  changed. 
Because  her  brood  is  stol’n  away. 

XXII. 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go. 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well. 
Thro’  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell. 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow : 

And  we  with  singing  cheer’d  the  way. 

And  crown’d  with  all  the  season  lent, 

From  April  on  to  April  went. 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May  : 

But  where  the  path  we  walk’d  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 

As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear’d  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship. 

And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 

And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold. 

And  dull’d  the  murmur  on  thy  lip. 

And  bore  thee  where  I could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho’  I walk  in  haste. 

And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 
The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 

XXIII. 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut. 

Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 

Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits. 

The  Shadow  cloak’d  from  head  to  foot. 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds,  i 

I wander,  often  falling  lame. 

And  looking  back  to  whence  I came. 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 

And  crying,  “ How  changed  from  where  it 
ran 

Thro’  lands  where  not  a leaf  was  dumb  ; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 
The  murmur  of  a happy  Pan  : 

“ When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 

And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught. 

And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  with 
Thought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech  ; 

“ And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good. 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring. 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 
Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 


ii8  m MEMORIAM. 


“ And  many  an  old  philosophy 
On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 

And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 
To  many  a flute  of  Arcady.” 

XXIV. 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  sure  and  perfect  as  I say? 

The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dash’d  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met. 

This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look’d  to  human  eyes 
Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great? 
The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 

That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 
A glory  from  its  being  far  ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 

XXV. 

I KNOW  that  this  was  Life,  — the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared ; 

And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 
The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 

I loved  the  weight  I had  to  bear, 

Because  it  needed  help  of  love  ; 

Nor  could  I weary,  heart  or  limb. 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in  twain 
The  lading  of  a single  pain. 

And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 

XXVI. 

Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way  ; 

I with  it  ; for  I long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 
Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 
And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder’d  tree. 

And  towers  fall’n  as  soon  as  built,  — 

O,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 
Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 

In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more. 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be. 

Then  might  I find,  ere  yet  the  mom 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas. 

That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys. 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 

XXVII. 

I ENVY  not  In  any  moods 
The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 

The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  ; 


I envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time. 

Unfetter’d  by  the  sense  of  crime. 

To  whom  a conscience  never  wakes  : 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth. 

But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth  ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I hold  it  true,  whate’er  befall ; 

I feel  it,  when  I sorrow  most ; 

’T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

XXVIII. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid  ; the  night  is  still  ; 

The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 
Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round. 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor. 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a door 
Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound  : 

Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind. 

That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease. 

Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace. 
Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I slept  and  woke  with-  pain, 

I almost  wish’d  no  more  to  wake. 

And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 
Before  I heard  those  bells  again  ; 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  they  controll’d  me  when  a boy  ; 

They  bring  me  sorrow  touch’d  with  joy. 
The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Y ule. 

XXIX. 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace. 

And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve  ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower’d  largess  of  delight. 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 

Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font. 

Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and  Wont 
That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house ; 

Old  sisters  of  a day  gone  by. 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new  ; 

Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 
Before  their  time  ? They  too  will  die. 

XXX. 

With  trembling  fingers  did  w'e  w'eave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth  ; 

A rainy  cloud  possess’d  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 


IN  MEMORIAM.  iig 


At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 
We  gamboH’d,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 
Gf  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 

We  paused : the  winds  were  in  the  beech 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land  ; 
And  in  a circle  hand-in-hand 
Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 

We  sung,  tho’  every  eye  was  dim, 

A merry  song  we  sang  with  him 
Last  year  : impetuously  we  sang : 

We  ceased  : a gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us:  surely  rest  is  meet : 

“They  rest,”  we  said,  “their  sleep  is 
sweet,” 

And  silence  follow’d,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a higher  range  ; 

Once  more  we  sang  : “ They  do  not  die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  ; 

“ Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 
With  gather’d  power,  yet  the  samp. 

Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 
From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil.” 

Rise,  happy  mom,  rise,  holy  morn. 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night : 

O Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 
The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 

XXXI. 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 

And  home  to  Mary’s  house  return’d. 

Was  this  demanded,  — if  he  yearn’d 
To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

“ Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four 
days?” 

There  lives  no  record  of  reply. 

Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 
Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 

From  every  house  the  neighbors  met. 

The  streets  were  fill’d  with  joyful  sound, 

A solemn  gladness  even  crown’d 
The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a man  raised  up  by  Christ  1 
The  rest  remaineth  unreveal’d  ; 

He  told  it  not ; or  something  seal’d 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 

XXXII. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer. 

Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits. 

And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother’s  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 


All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears. 

Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete. 

She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour’s  feet 
With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 

What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure. 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

XXXIII. 

O THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach’d  a purer  air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere. 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form. 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays. 

Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views  ; 

Nor  thou  with  shadow’d  hint  confuse 
A life  that  leads  melodious  days. 

Her  faith  thro’  form  is  pure  as  thine. 

Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good  ; 

O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  and  blood 
To  which  she  links  a truth  divine  ! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within. 

Thou  fail  not  in  a world  of  sin, 

And  ev’n  for  want  of  such  a type. 

XXXIV. 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this. 

That  life  shall  live  forevermore. 

Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core. 

And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is  ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame. 
Fantastic  beauty  ; such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 
Without  a conscience  or  an  aim. 

What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I ? 

’T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 
Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 
A little  patience  ere  I die  ; 

’T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace. 

Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws. 

To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 
Of  vacant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 

^ XXXV. 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house, 

“ The  cheeks  drop  in  ; the  body  bows  ; 
Man  dies  : nor  is  there  hope  in  dust  ” : 

Might  I not  say,  “ Yet  even  here. 

But  for  one  hour,  O Love,  I strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a thing  alive  ”? 

But  I should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 

The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea. 

The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  .^Flonian  hills,  and  sow 
The  dust  of  continents  to  be  ; 


120 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


And  Love  would  answer  with  a sigh, 

“ The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 
Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more, 
Half-dead  to  know  that  I shall  die.” 

O me  ! what  profits  it  to  put 
An  idle  case?  If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut. 

Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods. 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 
Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush’d  the 
grape, 

And  bask’d  and  batten’d  in  the  woods. 

XXXVI. 

Tho’  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join. 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame. 

We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 
Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin  ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 
Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail. 
When  truth  embodied  in  a tale 
Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 

And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds. 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought ; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 

Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 
In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 

xxxvii. 

Urania  speaks  with  darken’d  brow  ; 

“ Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art  least ; 
This  faith  has  many  a purer  priest, 

And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

“ Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill. 

On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 

And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 
About  the  ledges  of  the  hill.” 

And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek : 

“ I am  not  worthy  ev’n  to  speak 
Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

“ For  I am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 

And  owning  but  a little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart. 

And  render  human  love  his  dues ; 

“ But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead. 

And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 

(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 
To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 

“ I murmur’d,  as  I came  along. 

Of  comfort  clasp’d  in  truth  reveal’d  ; 

And  loiter’d  in  the  Master’s  field. 

And  darken’d  sanctities  with  song.” 


XXXVIII. 

With  weary  steps  I loiter  on, 

Tho’  always  under  alter’d  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies. 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives. 

The  herald  melodies  of  spring. 

But  in  the  songs  I love  to  sing 
A doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 

If  any  care  for  what  is  here 
Survive  in  spirits  render’d  free. 

Then  are  these  songs  I sing  of  thee 
Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 

XXXIX. 

Could  we  forget  the  widow’d  hour. 

And  Icok  on  Spirits  breathed  away. 

As  on  a maiden  in  the  day 
When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower  1 

When  crown’d  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 

And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 
Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes; 

And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move. 

And  tears  are  on  the  mother’s  face, 

As  parting  with  a long  embrace 
She  enters  other  realms  of  love  : 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach. 

Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 

A link  among  the  days,  to  knit 
The  generations  each  with  each ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 
The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 

Ay  me,  the  difference  I discern  ! 

How'  often  shall  her  old  fireside 
Be  cheer’d  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return. 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told. 

And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  miss’d  her  most 
Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  : 

But  thou  and  I have  shaken  hands, 

I'ill  growing  winters  lay  me  low' ; 

My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I know. 

And  thine  in  undiscover’d  lands. 

XL. 

Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 

As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire. 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro’  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn’d  to  something  strange, 
And  I have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes  ; here  upon  the  ground. 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


I2I 


Deep  folly  ! yet  that  this  could  be,  — 

That  I could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee  ; 

For  tho’  my  nature  rarely  yields 
To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death  ; 

Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath. 

The  bowlings  from  forgotten  fields ; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 
An  inner  trouble  I behold, 

A spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 

Tho’  following  with  an  upward  mind 
The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro’  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a life  behind. 

XLI. 

I VEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  : 

He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race  ; 

It  was  but  unity  of  place 
That  made  me  dream  I rank’d  with  him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 

And  he  the  much -beloved  again, 

A lord  of  large  experience,  train 
To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit’s  inner  deeps. 

When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not,  reaps 
A truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ? 

XLII. 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one. 

And  every  spirit’s  folded  bloom 
Thro’  all  its  intervital  gloom 
In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on  ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour. 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last. 

And  silent  traces  of  the  past 
Be  all  the  color  of  the  flower : 

So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 

So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a figured  leaf  enrolls 
The  total  world  since  life  began  ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 
As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 

And  at  the  spiritual  prime 
Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 

XLIII. 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead? 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and  more  ; 

But  he  forgets  the  days  before 
God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish’d,  tone  and  tint. 

And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not  whence) 
A, little  flash,  a mystic  hint ; 


And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 
(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 

May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 
Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

O turn  thee  round,  resolve  the  doubt ; 

My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 
In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 

XLIV. 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky. 

What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast. 

Has  never  thought  that  “ this  is  I ” : 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much. 

And  learns  the  use  of  “ I,”  and  “me,” 
And  finds  “ 1 am  not  what  I see. 

And  other  than  the  things  I touch.” 

So  rounds  he  to  a separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin, 
As  thro’  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 
His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 

Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due. 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 
Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 

XLV. 

We  ranging  down  this  lower  track. 

The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower. 

Is  shadow’d  by  the  growing  hour. 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it : there  no  shade  can  last 
In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb. 

But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 
The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past : 

A lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal’d  ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase  ; 

Days  order’d  in  a wealthy  peace. 

And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

O Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 

A bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far  ; 

Look  also,  Love,  a brooding  star, 

A rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 

XLVI. 

That  each,  who  seems  a separate  whole. 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 
Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 

Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 

Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside  ; 

And  I shall  know  him  when  we  meet : 

And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast. 

Enjoying  each  the  other’s  good  : 

What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 
Of  Love  on  earth  ? He  seeks  at  least 


122  IN  MEMORIAM. 


Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 

Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 

Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

“ Farewell  1 We  lose  ourselves  in  light.” 

XLVII. 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born. 

Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  proposed, 
Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove  ; 

She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit. 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit. 
And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  : 

And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words. 
But  better  serves  a wholesome  law. 

And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 
The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a larger  lay. 

But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 
Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 
Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 

XLVIII. 

F ROM  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools. 

Let  random  influences  glance. 

Like  light  in  many  a shiver’d  lance 
That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools  : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp. 

The  fancy’s  tenderest  eddy  wreathe. 

The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 
To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way. 

But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming- wan  ton  ripple  break. 

The  tender- pencil’d  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 

Ay  me  ! the  sorrow  deepens  down, 

Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 
The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 

XLIX. 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps, and  the  nerves  prick 
And  tingle  ; and  the  heart  is  sick. 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 
Is  rack’d  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust : 
And  Time,  a maniac  scattering  dust. 

And  Life,  a Fury  slinging  flame. 

Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry. 

And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 

That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing. 
And  weave  their  petty  ceils  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife. 

And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 
The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


L. 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 

Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 

Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I strove, 

I had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 

See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame. 
And  I be  lessen’d  in  his  love  ? 

I wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death  : 
The  dead  shall  look  me  thro’  and  thro’. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours. 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 

LI. 

I CANNOT  love  thee  as  I ought. 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved  ; 

My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 
Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

“ Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song,” 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 

“ Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side. 
Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 

“ What  keeps  a spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  ? 

What  record  ? not  the  sinless  years 
That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue  : 

“ So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl. 

That  life  is  dash’d  with  flecks  of  sin. 
Abide  : thy  wealth  is  gather’d  in. 

When  Time  hath  sunder’d  shell  from  pearl.” 

LII. 

How  many  a father  have  I seen, 

A sober  man  among  his  boys. 

Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise. 
Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green  : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That  had  the  wild-oat  not  been  sown, 

The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had  grown 
The  grain  by  which  a man  may  live  ? 

O,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 
For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth. 

Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a truth 
To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round? 

Hold  thou  the  good  : define  it  well : 

For  fear  divine  Philosophy 
Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 

LIII. 

O YET  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood ; 


m ME  MORI  AM. 


That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy’d, 

Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete  ; 

That  not  a worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 

That  not  a moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shri veil’d  in  a fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another’s  gain. 

Behold  w’e  know  not  anything  ; 

I can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  — far  otF—  at  last,  to  all. 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream  : but  what  am  I ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a cry. 

LIV. 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave. 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 
The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams? 

So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems. 

So  careless  of  the  single  life  ; 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 
Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds. 

And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 
She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I falter  where  I firmly  trod. 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world’s  altar-stairs 
That  slope  thro’  darkness  up  to  God, 

I stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope. 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I feel  is  Lord  of  all. 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

LV. 

“ So  careful  of  the  type  ? but  no. 

F rom  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  “ A thousand  types  are  gone  : 
I care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

“ Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 

I bring  to  life,  I bring  to  death  : 

The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

I know  no  more.”  And  he,  shall  he, 

Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem’d  so  fair. 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes. 

Who  roll’d  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies. 
Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer. 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed. 

And  love  Creation’s  final  law, — 

Tho’  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 
With  ravin,  shriek’d  against  his  creed,  — 


123 

Who  loved,  who  suffer’d  countless  ills. 

Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 

Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal’d  within  the  iron  hills? 

No  more?  A monster  then,  a dream, 

A discord.  Dragons  of  the  prime. 

That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime. 

Were  mellow  music  match’d  with  him. 

0 life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O for  thy  voice  to  sooth  and  bless  ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress? 

Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 

LVI. 

Peace  ; come  away  : the  song  of  woe 
Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  ; 

Peace  ; come  away  : we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly  : let  us  go. 

Come  ; let  us  go : your  cheeks  are  pale ; 

But  half  my  life  I leave  behind  : 

Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined  : 

But  I shall  pass ; my  work  will  fail. 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies. 

One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 
That  ever  look’d  with  human  eyes. 

1 hear  it  now,  and  o’er  and  o’er, 

Ete'rnal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 

And  “ Ave,  Ave,  Ave,”  said, 

“Adieu,  adieu,”  forevermore. 

LVII. 

In  those  sad  words  I took  farewell : 

Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls. 

As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 
In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 
Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day. 

Half  conscious  of  their  dying  clay. 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 

The  high  Muse  answer’d : “ Wherefore 
grieve 

Thy  brethren  with  a fruitless  tear  ? 

Abide  a little  longer  here. 

And  thou  shalt  take  a nobler  leave.” 

LVIII. 

O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me. 

No  casual  mistress,  but  a wife. 

My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life ; 

As  I confess  it  needs  must  be  ; 

O Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 

Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a bride. 

And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move. 

Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day  : 

But  I ’ll  have  leave  at  times  to  play 
As  with  the  creature  of  my  love ; 


124 


IN  ME  MORIAH. 


1 


And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 

With  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come, 
That,  howsoe’er  I know  thee,  some 
Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 

LIX. 

He  past ; a soul  of  nobler  tone  : 

My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet. 

Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 
On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere. 

She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot. 

Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 

The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 

She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days. 

Moving  about  the  household  ways. 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  born. 

The  foolish  neighbors  come  and  go. 

And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by  : 

At  night  she  weeps,  “ How'  vain  am  I I 
How  should  he  love  a thing  so  low  ? ” 

LX. 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime. 

Thy  ransom’d  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise. 

The  perfect  flow  er  of  human  time ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below. 

How  dimly  character’d  and  slight. 

How  dwarf  d a growth  of  cold  and  night. 
How  blanch’d  with  darkness  must  I grow  ! 

Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore. 

Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a man  ; 

I loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 
The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 

LXI. 

Tho’  if  an  eye  that ’s  dowmw^ard  cast 

Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or  fail. 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale. 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined 
When  he  was  little  more  than  boy. 

On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy. 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind ; 

And  breathes  a novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies. 

Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 
Is  matter  for  a flying  smile. 

LXII. 

Yet  pity  for  a horse  o’er-driven. 

And  love  in  w'hlch  my  hound  has  part. 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 
In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven  ; 

And  T am  so  much  more  than  these. 

As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 

And  yet  I spare  them  sympathy. 

And  I would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 


So  mayst  thou  watch  me  wliere  f weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound. 

The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 
A higher  height,  a deeper  deep. 

LXIII. 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man. 

Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a simple  village  green ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth’s  invidious  bar. 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance. 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys. 

To  mould  a mighty  state’s  decrees. 
And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune’s  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a people’s  hope, 

The  centre  of  a world’s  desire  ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a pensive  dream. 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 

A distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A secret  sweetness  in  the  stream. 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate. 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play’d  at  counsellors  and  kings, 
With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 

Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  : 

“ Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? ” 

LXIV. 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt  ; 

I lull  a fancy  trouble-tost 
With  “ Love ’s  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt.” 

And  in  that  solace  can  I sing. 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a happy  thought. 
Self-balanced  on  a lightsome  wing  : 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends. 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 

A part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 

LXV. 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay. 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 

The  shade  by  which  my  life  w^as  crost, 
Which  makes  a desert  in  the  mind. 

Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind. 
And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 


IN’  ME  MORI  AM. 


125 


Whose  feet  are  guided  thro’  the  land, 

Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 

Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee. 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky ; 

His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 

LXVI. 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 

I know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 

By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 

There  comes  a glory  on  the  walls : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears. 

As  slowly  steals  a silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name. 

And  o’er  the  number  of  thy  years. 

The  mystic  glory  swims  away  : 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies  ; 

And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 

I sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  I know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast. 

And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a ghost. 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 

Lxvir. 

When  in  the  down  I sink  my  head. 

Sleep,  Death’s  twin-brother,  times  my 
breath  ; 

Sleep,  Death’s  twin-brother,  knows  not 
Death, 

Nor  can  I dream  of  thee  as  dead  : 

I walk  as  ere  I walk’d  forlorn. 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew. 
And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 

But  what  is  this?  I turn  about, 

I find  a trouble  in  thine  eye. 

Which  makes  me  sad,  I know  not  why. 
Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 
I wake,  and  I discern  the  truth  ; 

It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 
That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 

LXVIII. 

I dream’d  there  would  be  Spring  no  more. 
That  Nature’s  ancient  power  was  lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and 
frost. 

They  chatter’d  trifles  at  the  door  ; 

I wander’d  from  the  noisy  town, 

I found  a wood  with  thorny  boughs  : 

I took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I wore  them  lik*e  a civic  crown  : 

I met  with  scoffs,  I met  with  scorns- 
From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs  : 


They  call’d  me  in  the  public  squares 
The  fool  that  wears  a crown  of  thorns  : 

They  call’d  me  fool,  they  call’d  me  child  : 

1 found  an  angel  of  the  night  ; 

The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright ; 
He  look’d  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 

He  reach’d  the  glory  of  a hand. 

That  seem’d  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 

The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief ; 

The  wordSj^were  hard  to  understand. 

LXIX. 

I CANNOT  see  the  features  right. 

When  on  the  gloom  I strive  to  paint 
The  face  I know  ; the  hues  are  faint 
And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 

A gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 

A hand  that  points  and  palled  shapes 
In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 

And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors. 
And  shoals  of  pucker’d  faces  drive  ; 

Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive. 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores  : 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I hear  a wizard  music  roll. 

And  thro’  a lattice  on  the  soul 
Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 

LXX. 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A night-long  Present  of  the  Past 
In  which  we  went  thro’  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  ? 

Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 

Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of  wrong 
That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole  ; 

While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk’d 
Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change. 
The  days  that  grow  to  something  strange. 
In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk’d 

Beside  the  river’s  wooded  reach, 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge. 

The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge. 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 

LXXI. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again. 

And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night. 

With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white. 
And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crown’d  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom. 

Which  sicken’d  every  living  bloom, 

And  blurr’d  the  splendor  of  the  sun  ; 

Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 
With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 


126  /iV  MEMORIAM. 


Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 
Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower  ; 

V/ho  might’st  have  heaved  a windlass  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play’d 
A cheqiier-w'ork  of  beam  and  shade 
Along  the  hills,  yet  looked  the  same, 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now  ; 

Day,  mark’d  as  with  some  hideous  crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  thro’ 
time,  • 

And  cancell’d  nature’s  best : but  thou, 

Lift  as  thou  mayst  thy  burthen’d  brows 
Thro’  clouds  that  drench  the  morning 
star. 

And  whirl  the  ungarner’d  sheaf  afar. 

And  SOW'  the  sky  with  flying  boughs. 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 
Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day ; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray,- 
And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 

LXXII. 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 

So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 

How  know  I what  had  need  of  thee. 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wen  true  ? 

The  fame  is  quench’d  that  I foresaw, 

The  head  hath  miss’d  an  earthly  wreath  : 

I curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 

We  pass;  the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 

What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 
In  endless  age  ? It  rests  with  God. 

0 hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults. 

And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a name. 

LXXIII. 

As  sometimes  In  a dead  man’s  face, 

To  those  that  w'atch  it  more  and  more, 

A likeness,  hardly  seen  before. 

Comes  out  — to  some  one  of  his  race : 

So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 

But  there  is  more  than  I can  see. 

And  w'hat  I see  I leave  unsaid, 

Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 
His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 

LXXIV. 

1 LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpress’d  ^ 

In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief. 

And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 

I leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess’d ; 


What  practice  how'so’er  expert 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 

Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings. 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

I care  not  in  these  fading  days 
To  raise  a cry  that  lasts  not  long, 

And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 
To  stir  a little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish’d  in  the  green. 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 
Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame  ; 

But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view', 
Whate’er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 
Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 

LXXV. 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend. 

And  in  a moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 
Are  sharpen’d  to  a needle’s  end ; 

Take  wings  of  foresight ; lighten  thro’ 

The  secular  abyss  to  come, 

And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 
Before  the  mouldering  of  a yew ; 

And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last. 

Thine  owm  shall  w-ither  in  the  vast. 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these,  have  clothed  their  branchy  bow'ers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain  ; 

And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 
The  ruin’d  shells  of  hollow  towers? 

LXXVI. 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 
Foreshorten’d  in  the  tract  of  time? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 
May  bind  a book,  may  line  a box. 

May  serve  to  curl  a maiden’s  locks ; 

Or  when  a thousand  moons  shall  w'ane 

A man  upon  a stall  may  find. 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
A grief,  then  changed  to  something  else. 
Sung  by  a long-forgotten  mind. 

But  what  of  that?  M)^  darken’d  ways 
Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same  ; 

To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 

To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 

LXXV  1 1. 

Again  at  Christmas  did  w'e  w'eave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth  ; 
The  silent  snow  possess’d  the  earth. 

And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve  : 


m MEMORIAM.  127 


■ The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 

But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 
The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 

As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture’s  breathing  grace, 
And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show’d  a token  of  distress  ? 

No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 

0 sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane? 

O grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

0 last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No,  — mixt  with  a!)  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same. 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 

LXXVIII. 

**  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me,”  — 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 

1 know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 
To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 

But  thou  and  T are  one  in  kind. 

As  moulded  like  in  nature’s  mint ; 

And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 
The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 

For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl’d 
Thro’  all  his  eddying  coves  ; the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 
In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer’d  vows, 

One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learn ’d. 
Ere  childhood’s  flaxen  ringlet  turn’d 
To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 

But  he  was  rich  where  I was  poor. 

And  he  supplied  my  w'ant  the  more 
As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 

LXXIX. 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise. 

That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side, 
And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can. 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought,. 
A grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought. 

But  stay’d  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 

1 make  a picture  in  the  brain  ; 

I hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks  ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks  : 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  from  the  grave 
Reaoh  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


EXXX. 

Could  I have  said  while  he  w'as  here, 

“ My  love  shall  now  no  further  range  ; 
There  cannot  come  a mellower  change, 
For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear.” 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 

What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint? 

This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 
“More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more.” 

But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 

” My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain. 

And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 
It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat.” 

LXXXI. 

I WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face  ; 
No  lower  life  that  earth’s  embrace 
May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on,  _ 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks  ; 

And  these  are  but  the  shatter’d  stalks, 

Or  ruin’d  chrysalis  of  one. 

Nor  blame  T Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 

I know  transplanted  human  worth 
Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I wreak 
The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart; 

He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 
We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 

Lxxxir. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

O sw'eet  new-year,  delaying  long  : 

Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong  ; 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons^ 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place? 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days. 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons? 

Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 

The  little  speedwell’s  darling  blue. 

Deep  tulips  dash’d  with  fiery  dew, 
Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

0 thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood. 

That  longs  to  burst  a frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a fresher  throat  with  song. 

LXXXIII. 

When  I contemplate  all  alone 
The  life  that  had  been  thine  below. 

And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 
To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown; 

1 see  thee  sitting  crown’d  with  good, 

A central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 


128  IN  MEMORIAM. 


In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kiss, 
On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood ; 

Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine  ; 

For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with  one 
Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  “ Uncle  ” on  my  knee  ; 

But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower, 
Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I seem  to  meet  their  least  desire. 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 

I see  their  unborn  faces  shine 
Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 

I see  myself  an  honor’d  guest. 

Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk. 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labor  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise. 

And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 
Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a morn  as  fair  ; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers 
To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair ; 

Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 

Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought. 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the  globe  ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 

As  link’d  with  thine  in  love  and  fate. 

And,  hovering  o’er  the  dolorous  strait 
To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee. 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal. 

And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand. 

And  take  us  as  a single  soul. 

What  reed  was  that  on  which  I leant? 

Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 
The  low  beginnings  of  content  ? 

LXXXIV. 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 

I felt  it,  when  I sorrow’d  most, 

’T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 

O true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief. 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I lead ; 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 
Be  dimm’d  of  sorrow  or  sustain’d  ; ^ 

And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain’d 
My  capabilities  of  love ; 


Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A faithful  answer  from  the  breast. 

Thro’  light  reproaches,  half  exprest. 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept. 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 

That  in  Vienna’s  fatal  walls 
God’s  finger  touch’d  him,  and  he  slept. 

The  great  Intelligences  fair 
That  range  above  our  mortal  state. 

In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate. 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there  ; 

And  led  him  thro’  the  blissful  climes. 

And  show’d  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 
Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I remain’d,  whose  hopes  were  dim. 
Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  littler 
w'orth, 

To  wander  on  a darken’d  earth. 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him^ 

O friendship,  equal-poised  control, 

O heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0 sacred  essence,  other  form, 

0 solemn  ghost,  O crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 

How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands,. 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1 felt  and  feel,  tho’  left  alone. 

His  being  working  in  mine  own. 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine  ; 

A life  that  all  the  Muses  deck’d 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness. 

All -subtilizing  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe. 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro’  all  my  life. 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 
For  other  friends  that  once  I met ; 

Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 
The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

1 woo  your  love  I count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 

I,  the  divided  half  of  such 
A friendship  as  had  master’d  Time  ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 


JN  MEMORIAM,  129 


The  all-assuming  months  and  years 
Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 

But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks, 
And  Autumn,  with  a noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 
Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom. 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb. 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak  : 

“ Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 
A friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 

“ I watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore  ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more.” 

And  I,  “ Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 

How  is  it  ? Canst  thou  feel  for  me 
Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ? ” 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall : 

“ ’T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this  : 

I triumph  in  conclusive  bliss. 

And  that  serene  result  of  all.” 

So  hold  I commerce  with  the  dead  ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say  ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play. 

And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end. 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I shall  prove 
A meeting  somewhere,  love  with  lo/e, 

I crave  your  pardon,  O my  friend  ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 

I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I could  not,  if  I would,  transfer 
The  whole  1 felt  for  him  to  you. 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 
The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 

First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers. 
That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore. 

That  beats  within  a lonely  place. 

That  yet  remembers  his  embrace. 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more. 

My  heart,  tho’  widow’d,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone. 

But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 
That  warms  another  living  breast. 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I bring, 

Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear. 

The  primrose  of  the  later  year. 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 


LXXXV. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air. 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 
Thro’  all  the  dewy-tassell’d  wood. 

And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 
In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 

The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and 
Death, 

111  brethren  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 

To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 
A hundred  spirits  whisper  “ Peace.” 

LXXXVI 

I PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 
In  which  of  old  I wore  the  gown  ; 

I roved  at  random  thro’  the  town. 

And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls ; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 
The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make. 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 
The  prophets  blazon’d  on  the  jDanes  ; 

And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ; paced  the  shores 
And  many  a bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 
The  same,  but  not  the  same  ; and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I past 
To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  : 

I linger’d  ; all  within  was  noise 
Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 
That  crash’d  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor  ; 

Where  once  we  held  debate,  a band 
Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art. 

And  labor,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land  ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair. 

But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string; 

And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring. 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there  ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 
Would  cleave  the  mark.  A willing  ear 
We  lent  him.  Who,  but  hung  to  hear 
The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law. 

To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 
The  God  within  him  light  his  face. 


1^0  IN  MEMOIR  I AM. 


And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 

And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 
The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 

LXXXVII. 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro’  the  budded  quicks, 

0 tell  me  where  the  senses  mix, 

O tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  : fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf. 

And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 
Thy  passion  clasps  a secret  joy  ; 

And  I — my  harp  would  prelude  woe  — 

1 cannot  all  command  the  strings  : 

The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 

LXXXVII  I. 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk,  and  bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 
Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  dow’n. 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 

And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 
The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town  : 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw  ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  broiling 
courts 

And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark. 

To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 
The  landscape  winking  thro’  the  heat : 

O sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares. 

The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 

The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew. 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears  ! 

O bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 
The  Tuscan  poet  on  the  lawn  ; 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung. 

Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flung 
A ballad  to  the  brightening  moon  : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods. 

Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray. 

And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 
With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods  ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme. 
Discuss’d  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 

Or  touch’d  the  changes  of  the  state. 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ; 


But  if  I praised  the  busy  town, 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still. 

For  “ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other’s  angles  down, 

“And  merge,”  he  said,  “ in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man.” 

We  talk’d  : the  stream  beneath  us  ran, 
The  wine-flask  lying  couch’d  in  moss, 

Or  cool’d  within  the  glooming  wave ; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar. 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fall’n  into  her  father’s  grave. 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flow'ers. 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail. 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 

LXXXIX. 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind. 

Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could  fling 
This  bitter  seed  among  mankind  ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life. 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 
An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise  : 

’T  was  well,  indeed,  when  w'arm  w'ith  wine, 
To  pledge  them  with  a kindly  tear. 

To  talk  them  o’er,  to  w'ish  them  here. 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine ; 

But  if  they  came  w'ho  passed  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands  ; 

The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands. 
And  will  not  yield  them  for  a day. 

Yea,  tho’  their  sons  w'ere  none  of  these. 

Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 
The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 

Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me  : 

Whatever  change  the  years  have  wrought^ 
I find  not  yet  one  lonely  thought 
That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 

xc. 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch. 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush ; 

Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 
Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  w'hich  I know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers  ; 

The  hope  of  unaccomplish’d  years 
Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 

When  summer’s  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet, 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat. 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange  ; 


IN  MEMORIAM.  131 


Come  : not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a finer  light  in  light, 
xci. 

If  any  vision  should  reveal 
Thy  likeness,  I might  count  it  vain, 

As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain  ; 

Yea,  tho’  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind. 

1 might  but  say,  I hear  a wind 
Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 

Yea,  tho’  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A fact  within  the  coming  year ; 

And  tho’  the  months,  revolving  near. 
Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true, 

They  might  not  seem  thy  prophecies, 

But  spiritual  presentiments, 

And  such  refraction  of  events 
As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 

XCII. 

I SHALL  not  see  thee.  Dgre  I say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land. 
Where  first  he  walk’d  when  claspt  in  clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost. 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb ; 
Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 

O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 

O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 
Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter ; hear 
The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 
I^y  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 

XCIII. 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 

With  what  divine  affections  bold, 

Should  be  the  man  whose  thought  would 
hold 

An  hour’s  communion  with  the  dead. 

In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 
The  spirits  from  their  golden  day. 

Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair. 

The  memory  like  a cloudless  air. 

The  conscience  as  a sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din. 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits. 

They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates. 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


xciv. 

By  night  we  linger’d  on  the  lawn. 

For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry  ; 

And  genial  warmth  ; and  o’er  the  sky 
The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn ; 

And  cahn  that  let  the  tapers  bum 
Unwavering : not  a cricket  chirr’d; 

The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard. 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn ; 

And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies. 

And  wheel’d  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 
And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes  ; 

While  now  wc  sang  old  songs  that  peal’d 
From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch’d  at 
ease. 

The  white  kine  glimmer’d,  and  the  trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one. 
Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night, 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 
Went  out,  and  I was  all  alone, 

A hunger  seized  my  heart ; I read 
Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been. 

In  those  fall’n  leaves  which  kept  their 
green. 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead  : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 
The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love’s  dumb  cry  defying  change 
To  test  his  worth ; and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigor,  bold  to  dwell 

On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back. 
And  keen  thro’  wordy  snares  to  track 
Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 

So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line. 

The  dead  man  touch’d  me  from  the  past. 
And  all  at  once  it  seem’d  at  last 
His  living  soul  was  flash’d  on  mine. 

And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirl’d 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought. 

And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 
The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

iEonian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time,  the  shocks  of  Chance. 
The  blows  of  Death.  At  length  my  tranca 
Was  cancell’d,  stricken  thro’  with  doubt. 

Vague  words  ! but  ah,  how  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech. 

Or  ev’n  for  intellect  to  reach 
Thro’  memory  that  which  I became  : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal’d 
The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch’d  a| 
ease. 

The  white  kine  glimmer’d,  and  the  trees 
Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 


132  IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


And,  suck’d  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 

A breeze  began  to  tremble  o’er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock’d  the  full-foliaged  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 
The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

“ The  dawn,  the  dawn,”  and  died  away ; 

And  East  and  West,  without  a breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death. 
To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 

xcv. 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies. 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I know  not : one  indeed  I knew 
In  many  a subtle  question  versed. 

Who  touch’d  a jarring  lyre  at  first. 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  ; 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds. 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt. 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gather’d  strength. 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind  ^ 

And  laid  them  : thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light. 
And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone. 

But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud. 

As  over  Sinai’s  peaks  of  old. 

While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 
Altho’  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 

xcvi. 

My  love  has  talk’d  with  rocks  and  trees; 

He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown’d ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a married  life,  — 

I look’d  on  these,  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery. 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a wife. 

These  two  — they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye. 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune. 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 
Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away ; 

The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 
Whate’er  the  faithless  people  say. 


Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart. 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 

I'ho’  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 
He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind. 

He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star. 

He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far. 

He  looks  so  cold : she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 

A wither’d  violet  is  her  bliss  ; 

She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is  : 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 

She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house. 

And  he,  he  knows  a thousand  things. 

Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move. 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise. 

She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

“ I cannot  understand ; 1 love.” 

XCVI  I. 

You  leave  us  : you  -w'dl  see  the  Rhine, 

And  those  fair  hills  I sail’d  below. 

When  I was  there  with  him  ; and  go 
By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath. 
That  City.  All  her  splendor  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 
On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 
Enw'ind  her  isles,  unmark’d  of  me  ; 

I have  not  seen,  I will  not  see 
Vienna  ; rather  dream  that  there, 

A treble  darkness.  Evil  haunts 
The  birth,  the  bridal  ; friend  from  friend 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 
Above  more  graves,  a thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 
By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings  : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say. 

That  not  in  any  mother  towm 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 
By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves  ; nor  more  content. 

He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crow'd. 

When  all  is  gay  w'ith  lamps,  and  loud 
With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent. 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and  breaks 
The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


XCVIII. 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again. 

So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds. 

So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I lost  the  flower  of  men  ; 

Who  tremblest  thro’  thy  darkling  red 
On  yon  swoll’n  brook  that  bubbles  fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past. 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead ; 

Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 
A song  that  slights  the  coming  care, 

And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 
A fiery  finger  on  the  leaves ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath, 

To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth. 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be. 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 

To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls  ; 
They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 

xcix. 

I CLIMB  the  hill  : from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 

I find  ho  place  that  does  not  breathe 
Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold. 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed. 

Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead. 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold ; 

No  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 
That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 

Nor  quarry  trench’d  along  the  hill. 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock  ; 

Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro’  meadowy  curves. 
That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a kindred  eye, 

And  each  reflects  a kindlier  day  ; 

And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

c 

Unwatch’d,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown. 
This  maple  burn  itself  away  ; 

Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a rose-carnation  feed 
With  summer  spice  the  humming  air  ; 

Unloved,  by  many  a sandy  bar. 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 
Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star ; 


Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  craki 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 
The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 
A fresh  association  blow. 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow. 
Familiar  to  the  stranger’s  child; 

As  year  by  year  the  laborer  tills 

His  w’onted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades  ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 
From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


ci. 

We  leave  the  w^ell-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky ; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry. 
Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home. 

As  down  the  garden-walks  I move. 
Two  spirits  of  a diverse  love 
Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 

One  whispers,  here  thy  boyhood  sung 
Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 
In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  “ Yea,  but  here 
Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers, 
And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear.” 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day. 

And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 

I turn  to  go  : my  feet  are  set 
To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms ; 
They  mix  in  one  another’s  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 

CII. 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went 

From  out  the  doors  where  I was  bred, 

I dream’d  a vision  of  the  dead. 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 

Methought  I dwelt  within  a hall, 

And  maidens  with  me  : distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 
A river  sliding  by  the  wall. 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 

They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.  In  the  centre  stood 
A statue  veil’d,  to  which  they  sang  ; 

And  which,  tho’  veil’d,  was  known  to  me, 
The  shape  of  him  I loved,  and  love 
Forever  : then  flew  in  a dove 
And  brought  a summons  from  the  sea : 


133 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


334 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I must  go, 

They  wept  and  wail’d,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a little  shallop  lay 
At  anchor  in  the  flood  below  ; 

And  on  by  many  a level  mead, 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the  banks, 
We  glided  winding  under  ranks 
Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed  ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 

And  roll’d  the  floods  in  grander  space. 

The  maidens  gather’d  strength  and  grace 
And  presence,  lordlier  than  before  ; 

And  I myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch’d  them,  wax’d  in  every  limb; 

1 felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 

The  pulses  of  a Titan’s  heart ; 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  w^ar. 

And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a star ; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 
Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw. 

From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 
A great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck. 

But  thrice  as  large  as  rnan  he  bent 
To  greet  us.  Up  the  side  I went. 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck  : 


CIV. 

This  holly  by  the  cottage-eave. 

To-night,  ungather’d,  shall  it  stand  : 

We  live  within  the  stranger’s  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas-eve. 

Our  father’s  dust  is  left  alone 
And  silent  under  other  snows  : 

There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows. 
The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 

No  more  shall  w’ayward  grief  abuse 
The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime  ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of  time^ 
Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 

By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 

A little  spare  the  night  I loved. 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor. 

Nor  bowl  of  w'assail  mantle  warm  ; 

For  who  w'ould  keep  an  ancient  form 
Thro’  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more? 

Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch’d,  nor  flute  be  blown  ; 
No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed  ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 
Bewail’d  their  lot ; I did  them  wrong  : 
“We  served  thee  here,”  they  said,  “j 
long. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind?  ” 


So  rapt  I was,  they  could  not  win 
An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  “ Enter  likewise  ye  ^ 

And  go  with  us  ” : they  enter’d  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 

We  steer’d  her  toward  a crimson  cloud 
That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


cm. 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ : 
The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 

A single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A single  peal  of  bells  below. 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I know. 


Like  strangers’  voices  here  they  sound. 
In  lands  where  not  a memory  strays. 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days. 
But  all  is  new  unhallow’d  ground. 


cv. 

Ring  out  wdld  bells  to  the  wild  sky. 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more  ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 
Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a slowly  dying  cause. 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life. 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 
Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 


Ring  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  i<iie  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 

Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

cvi. 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 

A bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a purple-frosty  bank 
Of  vapor,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 
To  deck  the  banquet.  Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 
Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen’d  eaves, 

And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  w'hich  grides  and  clangs 
Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 
To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 
That  breaks  the  coast.  But  fetch  the 
wine. 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  He, 

To  make  a solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev’n  as  he  were  by ; 

We  keep  the  day.  With  festal  cheer, 

With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate’er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 

evil. 

I WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 

And,  lest  I stiffen  into  stone, 

I will  not  eat  my  heart  alone. 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a passing  wind ; 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho’  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven’s  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 

What  find  I in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns? 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 
The  reflex  of  a human  face. 

I ’ll  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  ; 

’T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 
Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 

CVIII. 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk 
I rom  household  fountains  never  dry ; 

The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 

That  saw  thro’  all  the  Muses’  walk  ; 


Seraphic  intellect  and  force 
To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man  ; 
Impassion’d  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course  ; 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 

But  touch’d  with  no  ascetic  gloom  ; 

And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 
Thro’  all  the  years  of  April  blood  ; 

A love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 

Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 
Of  England  ; not  the  school-boy  heat. 
The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 
In  such  a sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A trustful  hand,  unask’d,  in  thine. 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face  ; 

All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 
Have  look’d  on ; if  they  look’d  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  w'ho  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

cix. 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight. 

The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years  : 

The  feeble  soul,  a haunt  of  fears, 

Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm’d  of  pride. 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 
To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 

The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by. 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 
Was  soften’d,  and  he  knew  not  why  ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine  ; 

And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were  thine, 
The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill 
But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 

And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 
That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 

cx. 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro’  all. 

To  him  who  grasps  a golden  ball. 

By  blood  a king,  at  heart  a clown  ; 

The  churl  in  spirit,  howe’er  he  veil 
His  want  in  forms  for  fashion’s  sake. 

Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 
At  seasons  thro’  the  gilded  pale  : 

For  who  can  always  act  ? but  he, 

To  whom  a thousand  memories  call. 

Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 
The  gentleness  he  seem’d  to  be, 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


136 

Best  seem’d  the  thing  he  was,  and  join’d 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 
And  native  growth  of  noble  mind  ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 

Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 

Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light ; 

And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil’d  with  all  ignoble  use. 

cxr. 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 

That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies. 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I seem  to  cast  a careless  eye 
On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 

For  what  wertthou?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  forever  at  a touch, 

And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much. 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour. 

Large  elements  in  order  brought. 

And  tracks  of  calm  from  tempest  made. 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway’d 
In  vassal  tides  that  follow’d  thought. 

CXII. 

’T  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 

Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me. 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise  ; 

For  can  I doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  — 

I doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  : 

A life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 

A potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force. 
Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 

A lever  to  uplift  the  earth 
And  roll  it  in  another  course. 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go. 
With  agonies,  with  energies. 

With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries. 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 

CXIII. 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ? Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ? May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper  ! Who  shall  fix 
Her  pillars  ? Let  her  work  prevail. 


But  on  her  forehead  sits  a fire  : 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance. 
Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 

Half-grown  as  yet,  a child,  and  vain. 

She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 

What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ? fiery-hot  to  burst 
All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 
For  power.  Let  her  know  her  place ; 
She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A higher  hand  must  make  her  mild. 

If  all  be  not  in  vain  ; and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 
With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child  : 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind. 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 

O friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 
So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee. 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 
In  reverence  and  in  charity. 

cxiv. 

Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 
By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long. 
The  distance  takes  a lovelier  hue, 

And  drown’d  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea. 

The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 
On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea  ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  gleaming  green,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 
To  build  and  brood ; that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land  ; and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too  ; and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

cxv. 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 
That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 

And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 
The  colors  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all : the  songs,  the  stirring  air. 

The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust. 

Cry  thro’  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 
In  tkat  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM. 


Not  all  regret : the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I muse  alone ; 

And  that  dear  voice  I once  have  known 
Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead  ; 

Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled, 
Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 

cxvr. 

0 DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  is  this. 

To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 

A little  while  from  his  embrace. 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  ; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 
Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet ; 

And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet. 

Delight  a hundred-fold  accrue, 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs. 

And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals. 

And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 

CXVII. 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 

The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth  ; 

Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth. 

As  dying  Nature’s  earth  and  lime  ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day. 

Forever  nobler  ends.  They  say. 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began. 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms. 

The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms. 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man  ; 

Who  throve  and  branch’d  from  clime  to  clime 
The  herald  of  a higher  race. 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place 
If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  ; 

Or,  crown’d  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 
That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore. 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom. 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears. 

And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears. 

And  batter’d  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast; 

Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast. 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 

cxviir. 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I come  once  more  ; the  city  sleeps  ; 

1 smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 


137 

I hear  a chirp  of  birds  ; I see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-withdrawn 
A light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee. 

And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland. 

And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye  : 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a sigh 
I take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 

cxix. 

I TRUST  I have  not  wasted  breath  ; 

I think  we  are  not  wholly  brain. 

Magnetic  mockeries  ; not  in  vain. 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I fought  with  Death  ; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 

Let  Science  prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men. 

At  least  to  me  ? I would  not  stay. 

Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 
Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action,  like  the  greater  ape. 

But  I was  born  to  other  things. 

cxx. 

Sad  Hesper  o’er  the  buried  sun. 

And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 
And  dimmer,  and  a glory  done  ; 

The  team  is  loosen’d  from  the  wain. 

The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore  » 

Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door 
And  life  is  darken’d  in  the  brain. 

Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night. 

By  thee  the  world’s  great  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird  ; 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light ; 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream. 

And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink  ; 

Thou  hear’st  the  village  hammer  clink. 
And  see’st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper- Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last. 

Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past. 

Thy  place  is  changed  ; thou  art  the  same. 

cxxi. 

O,  WAST  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 

While  I rose  up  against  my  doom. 

And  yearn’d  to  burst  the  folded  gloom 
To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again. 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe. 

The  strong  imagination  roll 
A sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law. 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 

And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow. 

Till  all  my  blood,  a fuller  wave. 


IN  ME  MORI  AM, 


^38 

Be  quicken’d  with  a livelier  breath, 

And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 

As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death  : 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows. 

And  every  dew-drop  paints  a bow. 

The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow. 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a rose. 

CXXII. 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

0 earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  seen  ! 
There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath 

been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 
From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands  ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands. 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 

But  in  my  spirit  will  T dwell. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true ; 
For  tho’  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 

I cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 

CXXII  I. 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless  ; 

Our  dearest  faith  ; our  ghastliest  doubt ; 
He,  They,  One,  All  ; within,  without ; 
The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess  ; 

I found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun. 

Or  eagle’s  wing,  or  insect’s  eye  : 

Nor  thro’  the  questions  men  may  try. 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun  : 

If  e’er,  when  faith  had  fall’n  asleep, 

1 heard  a voice,  “ Believe  no  more,” 

And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep  : 

A warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason’s  colder  part. 

And  like  a man  in  wrath  the  heart 
Stood  up  and  answer’d,  ‘‘  I have  felt.” 

No,  like  a child  in  doubt  and  fear  : 

But  that  blind  clamor  made  me  wise  ; 
Then  was  I as  a child  that  cries, 

B«t,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 

And  what  I am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands  ; 

And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 
That  reach  thro’  nature,  moulding  men. 

cxxiv. 

Whatever  I have  said  or  sung. 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give. 
Yea,  tho’  there  often  seem’d  to  live 
A contradiction  on  the  tongue. 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  ; 

She  did  but  look  thro’  dimmer  eyes  ; 

Or  Love  but  play’d  with  gracious  lies 
Because  he  felt  so  fix’d  in  truth  : 


And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song  : 

And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong. 
He  set  his  royal  signet  there  ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I sail 
To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 

And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 
A thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

cxxv. 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 

And  in  his  presence  I attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend. 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 

And  will  be,  tho’  as  yet  I keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 
Encompass’d  by  his  faithful  guard. 

And  hear  at  times  a sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space. 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 

CXXVI. 

And  all  is  well,  tho’  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder’d  in  the  night  of  fear  : 

Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 
A deeper  voice  across  the  storm. 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread. 

And  justice,  ev’n  tho’  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 
Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a crown. 

And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  : 

They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down. 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood  ; 

The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 

The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  .^on  sinks  in  blood. 

And  compass’d  by  the  fires  of  Hell ; 

While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O’erlook’st  the  tumult  from  afar. 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 

CXXVI  I. 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings. 
Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death, 

Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 
That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 
Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made. 

And  throned  races  may  degrade ; 

Yet,  O ye  mysteries  of  good, 

Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new  ; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 


IN  ME  MORI  A M.  139 


To  draw,  to  sheathe  a useless  sword, 

To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lip, 

To  cleave  a creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power. 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk. 

To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 
And  tuft  with  grass  a feudal  tower  ; 

Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.  I see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art. 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 

CXXVIII. 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire. 

So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal  ; 

0 loved  the  most,  when  most  I feel 
There  is  a lower  and  a higher  ; 

Knowm  and  unknown  ; hurnan,  divine  ; 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 
Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die. 
Mine,  mine,  forever,  ever  mine  ; 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be  ; 
Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood  ; 
Behold,  I dream  a dream  of  good. 

And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 

CXXIX. 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

1 hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun. 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  ? I cannot  guess  ; 

But  tho’  I seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before  ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho’  mix’d  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 

I seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I have  thee  still,  and  I rejoice  ; 

I prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 

I shall  not  lose  thee  tho’  I die; 

cxxx. 

O LIVING  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock. 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro’  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 

A cry  above  the  conquer’d  years 
To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trusts, 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control. 

The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved. 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


O TRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long. 

Demand  not  thou  a marriage  lay  ; 

In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I felt  so  much  of  bliss 
Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A daughter  of  our  house  ; nor  proved 
Since  that  dark  day  a day  like  this  ; 

Tho’  I since  then  have  number’d  o’er 

Some  thrice  three  years ; they  went  and 
came. 

Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the  frame. 
And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a dead  regret. 

But  like  a statue  solid-set. 

And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 
Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 

For  I myself  with  these  have  grown 
To  something  greater  than  before  ; 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I mada 
As  echoes  out  of  w^eaker  times. 

As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower. 

That  must  be  made  a wife  ere  noon? 

She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 
Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes. 

And  then  on  thee  ; they  meet  thy  look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 
Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 

O when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud. 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 

For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 
Forever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy  ; full  of  power  ; 

As  gentle  ; liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent  : wearing  all  that  weight 
Of  learning  lightly  like  a flower. 

But  now  set  out : the  noon  is  near. 

And  I must  give  away  the  bride  ; 

She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 
And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear  : 

For  I that  danced  her  on  my  keee. 

That  watch’d  heron  her  nurse’s  arm. 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm. 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee  ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a wife. 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead  ; 

Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 
And  the  most  living  words  of  life 


140 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


Breathed  in  her  ear.  The  ring  is  on, 

The  “wilt  thou,”  answer’d,  and  again 
The  “wilt  thou  ” ask’d,  till  out  of  twain 
Her  sweet  “ I will”  has  made  ye  one. 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a joyful  morn, 

By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 

The  names  are  sign’d,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 

The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 
The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.  Many  a merry  face 
Salutes  them  — maidens  of  the  place. 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I gave. 

They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 
That  has  to-day  its  sunny  si^e. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 

For  them  the  light  of  life  increased. 

Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast. 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 
To  meet  and  greet  a whiter  sun  ; 

My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 
The  foaming  grape  of  Eastern  France. 

It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays. 

And  hearts  are  warm’d,  and  faces  bloom, 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 
We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a stiller  guest, 

Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest. 
And,  tho’  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on. 

And  those  white-favor’d  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger ; it  is  late  ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 

But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 
To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew. 

And  talk  of  othars  that  are  wed, 


And  how  she  look’d,  and  what  he  said. 
And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee. 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  douWe  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three. 

And  last  the  dance  ; — till  I retire  : 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud. 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 
And  on  the  downs  a rising  fire  ; 

And  rise,  O moon,  from  yonder  down, 

Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 
And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town. 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills. 

And  catch  at  every  mountain  head. 

And  o’er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 
Their  sleeping  silver  thro’  the  hills  ; 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 

With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 

And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 
To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds. 

And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 

A soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 
And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro’  life  of  lower  phase, 

Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think. 

And  act  and  love,  a closer  link 
Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 

Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 
On  knowledge  ; under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth’s,  and  in  their  hand 
Is  Nature  like  an  open  book ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 

And  hoped,  and  suffer’d,  is  but  seed 
Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves. 

One  God,  one  law,  one  element. 

And  one  far-off  divine  event. 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


MA  UD. 


141 


MAUD,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


MAUD. 

I. 


I HATE  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 

Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath, 
The  red-rlbb’d  ledges  drip  with  a silent  horror  of  blood, 
Afid  Echo  there,  whatever  is  ask’d  her,  answers  “ Death.’* 


2. 

For  there  in  the  ghastly  pit  long  since  a body  was  found. 

His  who  had  given  me  life  — O father  ! O God  ! w'as  it  well?  — 
Mangled,  and  flatten’d,  and  crush’d,  and  dinted  into  the  ground 
There  yet  lies  the  rock  that  fell  with  him  when  he  fell. 


3- 

Did  he  fling  himself  down?  who  knows  ? for  a vast  speculation  had  fail’d, 
And  ever  he  mutter’d  and  madden’d,  and  ever  wann’d  with  despair. 

And  out  he  walk’d  w'hen  the  wind  like  a broken  worldling  wail’d. 

And  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruin’d  woodlands  drove  thro’  the  air. 


4- 

I remember  the  time,  for  the  roots  of  my  hair  were  stirr’d 

By  a shuffled  step,  by  a dead  weight  trail’d,  by  a whisper’d  fright, 

And  my  pulses  closed  their  gates  with  a shock  on  my  heart  as  I heard 
The  shrill-edged  shriek  of  a mother  divide  the  shuddering  night. 

5- 

Villany  somewhere  ! whose?  One  says,  we  are  villains  all. 

Not  he : his  honest  fame  should  at  least  by  me  be  maintain’d  : 

But  that  old  man,  now  lord  of  the  broad  estate  and  the  Hall, 

Dropt  off  gorged  from  a scheme  that  had  left  us  flaccid  and  drain’d. 

6. 

Why  do  they  prate  of  the  blessings  of  Peace?  we  have  made  them  a curse. 
Pickpockets,  each  hand  lusting  for  all  that  is  not  its  own  ; 

And  lust  of  gam,  in  the  spirit  of  Cain,  is  it  better  or  worse 
1 han  the  heart  of  the  citizen  hissing  in  Ayar  on  his  own  hearthstone  ? 


7- 

^t  these  are  the  days  of  advance,  the  works  of  the  men  of  mind. 

When  who  but  a fool  w'ould  have  faith  in  a tradesman’s  ware  or  his  word? 

It  peace  or  war  ? Civil  war,  as  I think,  and  that  of  a kind 
The  viler,  as  underhand,  not  openly  bearing  the  sword. 

8. 

Sooner  or  later  I too  may  passively  take  the  print 

Of  the  golden  age  — why  not  ? I have  neither  hope  nor  trust ; 

May  make  my  heart  as  a millstone,  set  my  face  as  a flint, 

Cheat  and  be  cheated,  and  die : who  knows?  we  are  ashes  and  dust. 


142 


MAUD. 


Peace  sitting  under  her  olive,  and  slurring  the  days  gone  by, 

When  the  poor  are  hovell’d  and  hustled  together,  each  sex,  like  swine, 
When  only  the  ledger  lives,  and  when  only  not  all  men  lie  ; 

Peace  in  her  vineyard  — yes  1 — but  a company  forges  the  wine. 


And  the  vitriol  madness  flushes  up  in  the  ruffian’s  head. 

Till  the  filthy  by-lane  rings  to  the  yell  of  the  trampled  wife, 
While  chalk  and  alum  and  plaster  are  sold  to  the  poor  for  bread, 
And  the  spirit  of  murder  works  in  the  very  means  of  life. 


And  Sleep  must  lie  down  arm’d,  for  the  villanous  centre-bits 
Grind  on  the  wakeful  ear  in  the  hush  of  the  moonless  nights, 
While  another  is  cheating  the  sick  of  a few  last  gasps,  as  he  sits 
To  pestle  a poison’d  poison  behind  his  crimson  lights. 


12. 

When  a Mammonite  mother  kills  her  babe  for  a burial  fee. 

And  Timour-Mammon  grins  on  a pile  of  children’s  bones. 

Is  it  peace  or  war?  better,  war  ! loud  war  by  land  and  by  sea, 

War  with  a thousand  battles,  and  shaking  a hundred  thrones. 

13- 

For  I trust  if  an  enemy’s  fleet  came  yonder  round  by  the  hill, 

And  the  rushing  battle-bolt  sang  from  the  three-decker  out  of  the  foam, 

That  the  smooth-faced  snub-nosed  rogue  would  leap  from  his  counter  and  till. 
And  strike,  if  he  could,  were  it  but  with  his  cheating  yardwand,  home.  — 

H- 

What ! am  I raging  alone  as  my  father  raged  in  his  mood  ? 

Must  / too  creep  to  the  hollow  and  dash  myself  down  and  die 
Rather  than  hold  by  the  law  that  I made,  nevermore  to  brood 
On  a horror  of  shatter’d  limbs  and  a wretched  swindler’s  lie  ? 


15- 

Would  there  be  sorrow  for  me  ? there  was  love  in  the  passionate  shriek. 
Love  for  the  silent  thing  that  had  made  false  haste  to  the  grave  — 
Wrapt  in  a cloak,  as  I saw  him,  and  thought  he  would  rise  and  speak 
And  rave  at  the  lie  and  the  liar,  ah  God,  as  he  used  to  rave. 


i6. 

I am  sick  of  the  Hall  and  the  hill,  I am  sick  of  the  moor  and  the  main. 
Why  should  I stay?  can  a sweeter  chance  ever  come  to  me  here? 

O,  having  the  nerves  of  motion  as  well  as  the  nerves  of  pain. 

Were  it  not  wise  if  I fled  from  the  place  and  the  pit  and  the  fear? 


17. 

There  are  workmen  up  at  the  Hall : they  are  coming  back  from  abroad  ; 
The  dark  old  place  will  be  gilt  by  the  touch  of  a millionnaire  : 

I have  heard,  I know  not  whence,  of  the  singular  beauty  of  Maud ; 

I play’d  with  the  girl  when  a child  ; she  promised  then  to  be  fair. 

18. 

Maud  with  her  venturous  climbings  and  tumbles  and  childish  escapes, 
Maud  the  delight  of  the  village,  the  ringing  joy  of  the  Hall, 

Maud  with  her  sweet  purse-mouth  when  my  father  dangled  the  grapes, 
Maud  the  beloved  of  my  mother,  the  moon-faced  darling  of  all,  — 

19. 

What  is  she  now?  My  dreams  are  bad.  She  may  bring  me  a curse. 
No,  there  is  fatter  game  on  the  moor  ; she  will  let  me  alone. 

Thanks,  for  the  fiend  best  knows  whether  woman  or  man  be  the  worse. 

I will  bury  myself  in  my  books,  and  the  Devil  may  pipe  to  his  own. 


MAUD. 


II. 

Long  have  I sigh’d  for  a calm  : God  grant  I may  find  it  at  last ! 

It  will  never  be  broken  by  Maud,  she  has  neither  savor  nor  salt, 

But  a cold  and  clear-cut  face,  as  I found  when  her  carriage  past, 
Perfectly  beautiful : let  it  be  granted  her  : where  is  the  fault  ? 

All  that  I saw  (for  her  eyes  were  downcast,  not  to  be  seen) 

Faultily  faultless,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null, 

Dead  perfection,  no  more  ; nothing  more,  if  it  had  not  been 
For  a chance  of  travel,  a paleness,  an  hour’s  defect  of  the  rose, 

Or  an  underlip,  you  may  call  it  a little  too  ripe,  too  full, 

Or  the  least  little  delicate  aquiline  curve  in  a sensitive  nose. 

From  which  I escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch  of  spleen. 


III. 

Cold  and  clear-cut  face,  why  come  you  so  cruelly  meek. 

Breaking  a slumber  in  which  all  spleenful  folly  was  drown’d. 

Pale  with  the  golden  beam  of  an  eyelash  dead  on  the  cheek. 
Passionless,  pale,  cold  face,  star-sweet  on  a gloom  profound ; 
Womanlike,  taking  revenge  too  deep  for  a transient  wrong 
Done  but  in  thought  to  your  beauty,  and  ever  as  pale  as  before 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing  upon  me  without  a sound. 
Luminous,  gemlike,  ghostlike,  deathlike,  half  the  night  long 
Growing  and  fading  and  growing,  till  1 could  bear  it  no  more, 

But  arose,  and  all  by  myself  in  my  own  dark  garden  ground. 
Listening  now  to  the  tide  in  its  broad-flung  shipwrecking  roar, 

Now  to  the  scream  of  a madden’d  beach  dragg’d  down  by  the  wave. 
Walk’d  in  a wintry  wind  by  a ghastly  glimmer,  and  found 
The  shining  daffodil  dead,  and  Orion  low  in  his  grave. 

IV. 


A MILLION  emeralds  break  from  the  ruby-budded  lime 
In  the  little  grove  where  I sit  — ah,  wherefore  cannot  I be 
Like  things  of  the  season  gay,  like  the  bountiful  season  bland, 
When  the  far-off  sail  is  blown  by  the  breeze  of  a softer  clime, 
Half-lost  in  the  liquid  azure  bloom  of  a crescent  of  sea. 

The  silent  sapphire-spangled  marriage  ring  of  the  land  ? 


Below  me,  there,  is  the  village,  and  looks  how  quiet  and  small  ! 
And  yet  bubbles  o er  like  a city,  with  gossip,  scandal,  and  spite  ; 
And  Jack  on  his  alehouse  bench  has  as  many  lies  as  a Czar  ; 

And  here  on  the  landward  side,  by  a red  rock,  glimmers  the  Hall ; 
And  up  in  the  high  Hall-garden  I see  her  pass  like  a light ; 

But  sorrow  seize  me  if  ever  that  light  be  my  leading  star  I 


3- 

When  have  I bow’d  to  her  father,  the  wrinkled  head  of  the  race  ? 
1 met  her  to-day  with  her  brother,  but  not  to  her  brother  I bow’d 
1 bow  d to  his  lady-sister  as  she  rode  by  on  the  moor ; 

But  the  fire  of  a foolish  pride  flash’d  over  her  beautiful  face. 

U child,  you  wrong  your  beauty,  believe  it,  in  being  so  proud  ; 
Your  father  has  wealth  well-gotten,  and  I am  nameless  and  poor. 


I keep  but  a man  and  a maid,  ever  ready  to  slander  and  steal ; 

1 know  It,  and  smile  a hard-set  smile,  like  a stoic,  or  like 
A wiser  epicurean,  and  let  the  world  have  its  way  : 

For  nature  is  one  with  rapine,  a harm  no  preacher  can  heal ; 

The  ^layfly  is  torn  by  the  swallow,  the  sparrow  spear’d  by  tlie  shrike, 
And  the  whole  little  wood  where  I sit  is  a world  of  plunder  and  prey. 


144 


MAUD. 


5. 

We  are  puppets,  Man  in  his  pridp,  and  Beauty  fair  in  her  flower  ; 
Do  we  move  ourselves,  or  are  moved  by  an  unseen  hand  at  a game 
That  pushes  us  off  from  the  board,  and  others  ever  succeed? 

Ah  yet,  we  cannot  be  kind  to  each  other  here  for  an  hour ; 

We  whisper,  and  hint,  and  chuckle,  and  grin  at  a brother’s  shame ; 
However  we  brave  it  out,  we  men  are  a little  breed. 

6. 

A monstrous  eft  was  of  old  the  Lord  and  Master  of  Earth, 

For  him  did  his  high  sun  flame,  and  his  river  billowing  ran. 

And  he  felt  himself  in  his  force  to  be  Nature’s  crowning  race. 

As  nine  months  go  to  the  shaping  an  infant  ripe  for  his  birth. 

So  many  a million  of  ages  have  gone  to  the  making  of  man  : 

He  now  is  first,  but  is  he  the  last  ? is  he  not  too  base  ? 


. . . 7- 

The  man  of  science  himself  is  fonder  of  glory,  and  vain. 

An  eye  well-practised  in  nature,  a spirit  bounded  and  poor  ; 

The  passionate  heart  of  the  poet  is  whirl’d  into  folly  and  vice. 

I would  not  marvel  at  either,  but  keep  a temperate  brain  ; 

For  not  to  desire  or  admire,  if  a man  could  learn  it,  w-ere  more 
Than  to  walk  all  day  like  the  sultan  of  old  in  a garden  of  spice. 

8.  _ 

For  the  drift  of  the  Maker  is  dark,  an  Isis  hid  by  the  veil. 

Who  knows  the  ways  of  the  world,  how  God  will  bring  them  about  ? 
Our  planet  is  one,  the  suns  are  many,  the  world  is  wide. 

Shall  I weep  if  a Poland  fall  ? shall  I shriek  if  a Hungary  fail? 

Or  an  infant  civilization  be  ruled  with  rod  or  with  knout  ? 

I have  not  made  the  world,  and  He  that  made  it  will  guide. 


Be  mine  a philosopher’s  life  in  the  quiet  w'oodl and  w’ays, 

Where  if  I cannot  be  gay  let  a passionless  peace  be  my  lot. 

Far-off  from  the  clamor  of  liars  belied  in  the  hubbub  of  lies  ; 

From  the  long-neck’d  geese  of  the  w'orld  that  are  ever  hissing  dispraise, 
Because  their  natures  are  little,  and,  whether  he  heed  it  or  not, 

Where  each  man  w-alks  with  his  head  in  a cloud  of  poisonous  flies. 


10.  ^ 

And  most  of  all  would  I flee  from  the  cruel  madness  of  love,  xl 

The  honey  of  poison -flowers  and  all  the  m.easureless  ill.  ^ ^ 

Ah  Maud,  you  milk  white  fawn,  you  are  all  unmeet  for  a wife.  . 

Your  mother  is  mute'in  her  grave  as  her  image  in  marble  above  ; { 

Your  father  is  ever  in  London,  you  wander  about  at  your  will ; ^ 

You  have  but  fed  on  the  roses,  and  lain  in  the  lilies  of  life.  J 


V. 


A VOICE  by  the  cedar-tree. 

In  the  meadow  under  the  Hall  ! 

She  is  singing  an  air  that  is  known  to  me, 
A passionate  ballad  gallant  and  gay, 

A martial  song  like  a trurnpet’s  call  ! 
Singing  alone  in  the  morning  of  life. 

In  the  happy  morning  of  life  and  of  May, 
Singing  of  men  that  in  battle  array, 
Ready  in  heart  and  ready  in  hand, 

March  with  banner  and  bugle  and  fife 
To  the  death,  for  their  native  land. 


Maud  with  her  exquisite  face. 

And  wild  voice  pealing  up  to  the  sunny  sky, 


And  feet  like  sunny  gems  on  an  English  green,  . 

Maud  in  the  light  of  her  youth  and  her  grace,  ^ 

Singing  of  Death,  and  of  Honor  that  cannot  ■ 

die,  . ■ ‘ 

Till  I well  could  weep  for  a time  so  sordid 
and  mean, 

And  myself  so  languid  and  base.  > 

3- 

Silence,  beautiful  voice  ! ; 

Be  still,  for  you  only  trouble  the  mind  ^ 

With  a joy  in  which  I cannot  rejoice,  f 

A glory  I shall  not  find.  j 

Still  ! I will  hear  you  no  more,  . 'X 

For  your  sweetness  hardly  leaves  me  a choice  ^ 

But  to  move  to  the  meadow  and  fall  before  ^ 

Her  feet  on  the  meadow  grass,  and  adore,  W 

Not  her,  who  is  neither  courtly  nor  kind,  ¥ 

Not  her,  not  her,  but  a voice.  » 


*MA  VI?.  145 


VI. 


Morning  arises  stormy  and  pale, 

No  sun,  but  a wannish  glare 
In  fold  upon  fold  of  hueless  cloud, 

And  the  budded  peaks  of  the  wood  are  bow’d 
Caught  and  cufPd  by  the  gale  ; 

I had  fancied  it  would  be  fair. 

2. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I meet  ^ 

Last  night,  when  the  sunset  burn’d 
On  the  blossom’d  gable-ends 
At  the  head  of  the  village  street. 

Whom  but  Maud  should  I meet  ? 

And  she  touch’d  my  hand  with  a smile  so 
sweet 

She  made  me  divine  amends 
For  a courtesy  not  return’d.  / 

3* 

And  thus  a delicate  spark 
Of  glowing  and  growing  light 
Thro’  the  livelong  hours  of  the  dark 
Kept  itself  warm  in  the  heart  of  my  dreams. 
Ready  to  burst  in  a color’d  flame  ; 

Till  at  last,  when  the  morning  came 
In  a cloud,  it  faded,  and  seems 
But  an  ashen-gray  delight. 

4- 

What  if  with  her  sunny  hair. 

And  smile  as  sunny  as  cold, 

She  meant  to  weave  me  a snare 
Of  some  coquettish  deceit, 

Cleopatra-like  as  of  old 
To  entangle  me  when  we  met. 

To  have  her  lion  roll  in  a silken  net. 

And  fawn  at  a victor’s  feet. 

5. 

Ah,  what  shall  I be  at  fifty 
Should  Nature  keep  me  alive. 

If  I find  the  world  so  bitter 
When  I am  but  twenty-five? 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem’d, 

And  her  smile  were  all  that  I dream’d. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a smile  could  make  it  sweet. 

6. 

What  if  tho’  her  eye  seem’d  full 
Of  a kind  intent  to  me. 

What  if  that  dandy-despot,  he. 

That  jewell’d  mass  of  millinery, 

That  oil’d  and  curl’d  Assyrian  Bull 
Smelling  of  musk  and  of  insolence, 

Her  brother,  from  whom  I keep  aloof. 

Who  wants  the  finer  politic  sense 
To  mask,  tho’  but  in  his  own  behoof. 

With  a glassy  smile  his  brutal  scorn,  — 

"W  hat  if  he  had  told  her  yestermorn 
How  prettily  for  his  own  sweet  sake 
A face  of  tenderness  might  be  feign’d, 


And  a moist  mirage  in  desert  eyes. 

That  so,  when  the  rotten  hustings  shake 
In  another  month  to  his  brazen  lies, 

A wretched  vote  may  be  gain’d. 

7- 

For  a raven  ever  croaks,  at  my  side. 

Keep  watch  and  ward,  keep  watch  and  ward, 
Or  thou  wilt  prove  their  tool. 

Yea  too,  myself  from  myself  I guard,  * 
For  often  a man’s  own  angry  pride 
Is  cap  and  bells  for  a fool. 

8. 

Perhaps  the  smile  and  tender  tone 
Came  out  of  her  pitying  womanhood, 

For  am  I not,  am  I not,  here  alone 
So  many  a sum'mer  since  she  died. 

My  mother,  who  was  so  gentle  and  good? 
Living  alone  in  an  empty  house, 

Here  half-hid  in  the  gleaming  wood, 

Where  I hear  the  dead  at  midday  moan. 

And  the  shrieking  rush  of  the  wainscot 
mouse. 

And  my  own  sad  name  in  corners  cried. 
When  the  shiver  of  dancing  leaves  is  thrown 
About  its  echoing  chambers  wide, 

Till  a morbid  hate  and  horror  have  grown 
Of  a world  in  which  I have  hardly  mixt, 

And  a morbid  eating  lichen  fixt 
On  a heart  half-turn’d  to  stone. 

9- 

0 heart  of  stone,  are  you  flesh,  and  caught 
By  that  you  swore  to  withstand? 

For  what  was  it  else  within  me  wrought 
But,  I fear,  the  new  strong  wine  of  love. 
That  made  my  tongue  so  stammer  and  trip 
When  I pwthe  treasured  splendor,  her  hand, 
Come  sliding  out  of  her  sacred  glove. 

And  the  sunlight  broke  from  her  lip ; 

10. 

1 have  play’d  with  her  when  a child  ; 

She  remembers  it  now  we  meet. 

Ah  well,  well,  well,  I may  be  beguiled 
By  some  coquettish  deceit. 

Yet,  if  she  were  not  a cheat. 

If  Maud  were  all  that  she  seem’d. 

And  her  smile  had  all  that  I dream’d. 

Then  the  world  were  not  so  bitter 
But  a smile  could  make  it  sweet. 


VII. 


Did  I hear  it  half  in  a doze 
Long  since,  I know  not  where  ? 
Did  I dream  it  an  hour  ago, 
When  asleep  in  this  arm-chair? 

2. 

Men  were  drinking  together. 
Drinking  and  talking  of  me  ; 

“ Well,  if  it  prove  a girl,  the  boy 
Will  have  plenty : so  let  it  be.’* 


146 


MA  Ulf. 


3. 

Is  it  an  echo  of  something 
Read  with  a boy’s  delight, 
Viziers  nodding  together 
In  some  Arabian  night? 

4. 

Strange,  that  I hear  two  men, 
Somewhere,  talking  of  me  ; 
“Well,  if  it  prove  a girl,  my  l3oy 
Will  have  plenty:  so  let  it  be.” 


Rich  in  the  grace  all  women  desire, 
Strong  in  the  power  that  all  men  adore. 
And  simper  and  set  their  voices  lower. 
And  soften  as  if  to  a girl,  and  hold 
Awe-stricken  breaths  at  a work  divine, 
Seeing  his  gewgaw  castle  shine, 

New  as  his  title,  built  last  year. 

There  amid  perky  larches  and  pine, 
And  over  the  sullen-purple  moor 
(Look  at  it)  pricking  a cockney  ear. 

2. 


VIII. 

She  came  to  the  village  church, 

And  sat  by  a pillar  alone ; 

An  angel  watching  an  urn 
Wept  over  her,  carved  in  stone  ; 

And  once,  but  once,  she  lifted  her  eyes. 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  strangely  blush’d 
To  find  they  were  met  by  my  own  ; 

And  suddenly,  sweetly,  my  heart  beat  stronger 
And  thicker,  until  I heard  no  longer 
The  snow'y-banded,  dilettante. 
Delicate-handed  priest  intone ; 

And  thought,  is  it  pride,  and  mused  and 
sigh’d 

“ No  surely,  now  it  cannot  be  pride.” 


IX. 

I WAS  walking  a mile. 

More  than  a mile  from  the  shore. 
The  sun  look’d  out  w'ith  a smile 
Betwixt  the  cloud  and  the  moor, 
And  riding  at  set  of  day 
Over  the  dark  moor  land, 

Rapidly  riding  far  away. 

She  waved  to  me  with  her  hand. 
There  were  two  at  her  side, 
Something  flash’d  in  the  sun, 
Down  by  the  hill  I saw  them  ride. 
In  a moment  they  were  gone  ; 
Like  a sudden  spark 
Struck  vainly  in  the  night. 

And  back  returns  the  dark 
With  no  more  hope  of  light. 


X. 


What,  has  he  found  my  jewel  out? 

For  one  of  the  two  that  rode  at  her  side 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  I am  sure  was  he  : 
Bound  for  the  Hall,  and  I think  for  a bride. 
Blithe  would  her  brother’s  acceptance  be. 
Maud  could  be  gracious  too,  no  doubt. 

To  a lord,  a captain,  a padded  shape, 

A bought  comrmssion,  a waxen  face, 

A rabbit  mouth  that  is  ever  agape  — 
Bought  ? what  is  it  he  cannot  buy  ? 

And  therefore  splenetic,  personal,  base, 

A wounded  thing  with  a rancorous  cry. 

At  war  with  myself  and  a wretched  race. 
Sick,  sick  to  the  heart  of  life,  am  1. 


3- 

Last  week  came  one  to  the  county  town, 

' To  preach  our  poor  little  army  down. 

And  play  the  game  of  the  despot  kings,  - 
Tho’  the  state  has  done  it  and  thrice  as  well ; 
This  broad-brim’d  hawker  of  holy  things, 
Whose  ear  is  stuff’d  w'ith  his  cotton,  and  rings 
Even  in  dreams  to  the  chink  of  his  pence, 
This  huckster  put  down  war ! can  he  tell 
Whether  war  be  a cause  or  a consequence  ? 
Put  down  the  passions  that  make  earth  Hell ! 
Down  with  ambition,  avarice,  pride, 
Jealousy,  down  ! cutoff  from  the  mind 
The  bitter  springs  of  anger  and  fear ; 

Down  too,  dow'n  at  your  own  fireside. 

With  the  evil  tongue  and  the  evil  ear. 

For  each  is  at  war  with  mankind. 

4- 

I wish  I could  hear  again 

The  chivalrous  battle-song 

That  she  warbled  alone  in  her  joy  ! 

I might  persuade  myself  then 

She  would  not  do  herself  this  great  wrong 

To  take  a wanton,  dissolute  boy 

For  a man  and  leader  of  men. 


Sick,  am  I sick  of  a jealous  dread? 

Was  not  one  of  the  two  at  her  side 
This  new-made  lord,  w'hose  splendor  plucks 
The  slavish  hat  from  the  villager’s  head  ? 
Whose  old  grandfather  has  lately  died, 

Gone  to  a blacker  pit,  for  whom 
Grimy  nakedness  dragging  his  trucks 
And  laying  his  trams  in  a poison’d  gloom 
Wrought,  till  he  crept  frorn  a gutted  mine 
Master  of  half  a servile  shire. 

And  left  his  coal  all  turn’d  into  gold 
To  a grandson,  first  of  his  noble  line, 


5. 

Ah  God,  for  a man  with  heart,  head,  hand. 
Like  some  of  the  simple  great  ones  gone 
For  ever  and  ever  by, 

One  still  strong  man  in  a blatant  land. 
Whatever  they  call  him,  what  care  I, 
Aristocrat,  democrat,  autocrat,  — one 
Who  can  rule  and  dare  not  lie. 

6. 

And  ah  for  a man  to  arise  in  me. 

That  the  man  I am  may  cease  to  be  ! 


' She  came  to  the  village  church, 
And  sat  by  a pillar  alone.” 


MAUD. 


147 


XI. 


0 LET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 
What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I go  mad. 

1 shall  have  had  my  day. 


Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 
Before  I am  quite  quite  "ure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me  ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may 
To  a life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I shall  have  had  my  day. 


XII. 


Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 


XIII. 


Scorn’d,  to  be  scorn’d  by  one  that  I scorn, 
Is  that  a matter  to  make  me  fret  ? 

That  a calamity  hard  to  be  borne  ? 

Well,  he  may  live  to  hate  me  yet. 

Fool  that  I am  to  be  vext  with  his  pride  ! 

I past  him,  I was  crossing  his  lands  ; 

He  stood  on  the  path  a little  aside  ; 

His  face,  as  I grant,  in  spite  of  spite, 

Has  a broad-blown  comeliness,  red  and 
white, 

And  six  feet  two,  as  I think,  he  stands  ; 

But  his  essences  turn’d  the  live  air  sick. 

And  barbarous  opulence  jewel-thick 
Sunn’d  itself  on  his  breast  and  his  hands. 


Who  shall  call  me  ungentle,  unfair, 

I long’d  so  heartily  then  and  there 
To  give  him  the  grasp  of  fellowship  ; 
But  while  I past  he  was  humming  an  air, 
Stopt,  and  then  with  a riding  whip 
Leisurely  tapping  a glossy  boot, 

And  curving  a contumelious  lip, 
Gorgonized  me  from  head  to  foot 
With  a stony  British  stare. 


2. 

I Where  was  Maud  ? in  our  wood  ; 

■ And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 

■ Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

; Myriads  blow  together. 

: ^ 3- 

Birds  in  our  woods  sang 
I Ringing  thro’  the  valleys, 

f Maud  is  here,  here,  here 

^ In  among  the  lilies. 

4- 

I kiss’d  her  slender  hand, 

< She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen. 

But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 

5- 

I to  cry  out  on  pride 
Who  have  won  her  favor  ! 

0 Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

6. 

1 know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy. 

For  her  feet  have  touch’d  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

7. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 

One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

8. 

^ Look,  a horse  at  the  door. 

And  little  King  Charles  is  snarling. 

Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 

. You  are  not  her  darling. 


3. 

Why  sits  he  here  in  his  father’s  chair? 
That  old  man  never  comes  to  his  place : 
Shall  I believe  him  ashamed  to  be  seen  ? 
For  only  once,  in  the  village  street. 

Last  year,  I caught  a glimpse  of  his  face, 
A gray  old  wolf  and  a lean. 

Scarcely,  now,  would  I call  him  a cheat  ; 
For  then,  perhaps,  as  a child  of  deceit, 
She  might  by  a true  descent  be  untrue  ; 
And  Maud  is  as  true  as  Maud  is  sweet ; 
Tho’  I fancy  her  sweetness  only  due 
To  the  sweeter  blood  by  the  other  side  ; 
Her  mother  has  been  a thing  complete. 
However  She  came  to  be  so  allied. 

And  fair  without,  faithful  within, 

Maud  to  him  is  nothing  akin  ; 

Some  peculiar  mystic  grace 
Made  her  only  the  child  of  her  mother, 
And  heap’d  the  whole  inherited  sin 
On  that  huge  scapegoat  of  the  race. 

All,  all  upon  the  brother. 

. . 4- 

Peace,  angry  spirit,  and  let  him  be  I 
Has  not  his  sister  smiled  on  me  ? 


XIV. 

I. 

Maud  has  a garden  of  roses 
And  lilies  fair  on  a lawn  ; 

There  she  walks  in  her  state 
And  tends  upon  bed  and  bower 
And  thither  I climb’d  at  dawn 
And  stood  by  her  garden  gate  ; 
A lion  ramps  at  the  top. 

He  is  claspt  by  a passion-flower. 


148 


MAUD. 


2. 

Maud’s  own  little  oak-room 
(Which  Maud,  like  a precious  stone 
Set  in  the  heart  of  the  carven  gloom, 

Lights  with  herself,  when  alone 
She  sits  by  her  music  and  books, 

And  her  brother  lingers  late 
With  a roistering  company)  looks 
Upon  Maud’s  own  garden  gate  : 

And  I thought  as  I stood,  if  a hand,  as  white 
As  ocean-foam  in  the  moon,  were  laid 
On  the  hasp  of  the  window,  and  my  Delight 
Had  a sudden  desire,  like  a glorious  ghost,  to 
glide. 

Like  a beam  of  the  seventh  Heaven,  down  to 
my  side, 

There  were  but  a step  to  be  made. 

3- 

The  fancy  flatter’d  my  mind. 

And  again  seem’d  overbold  ; 

Now  I thought  that  she  cared  for  me, 

Now  I thought  she  was  kind 
Only  because  she  was  cold, 

4* 

I heard  no  sound  where  I stood 
But  the  rivulet  on  from  the  lawn 
Running  down  to  my  own  dark  wood  ; 

Or  the  voice  of  the  long  sea-wave  as  it  swell’d 
Now  and  then  in  the  dim-gray  dawn  ; 

But  I look’d,  and  round,  all  round  the  house 
I beheld 

The  death-white  curtain  drawn  ; 

Felt  a horror  over  me  creep. 

Prickle  my  skin  and  catch  my  breath, 

Knew  that  the  death-white  curtain  meant  but 
sleep, 

Yet  I shudder’d  and  thought  like  a fool  of  the 
sleep  of  death. 


XV. 

So  dark  a mind  within  me  dwells. 

And  I make  myself  such  evil  cheer. 

That  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else. 

Then  some  one  else  may  have  mucli  to 
fear  ; 

But  if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else. 

Then  I should  be  to  myself  more  dear. 
Shall  I not  take  care  of  all  that  I think, 

Yea  ev’n  of  wretched  meat  and  drink, 

If  I be  dear, 

if  I be  dear  to  some  one  else  ? 


XVL 


This  lump  of  earth  has  left  his  estate 
The  lighter  by  the  loss  of  his  weight ; 

And  so  that  he  find  what  he  went  to  seek. 
And  fulsome  Pleasure  clog  him,  and  drown 
His  heart  in  the  gross  mud-honey  of  town, 


He  may  stay  for  a year  who  has  gone  for  a 
week : 

But  this  is  the  day  when  I must  speak. 

And  I see  my  Oread  coming  down, 

O this  is  the  day  ! 

0 beautiful  creature,  what  am  I 
That  I dare  to  look  her  way  ; 

Think  I may  hold  dominion  sweet. 

Lord  of  the  pulse  that  is  lord  of  her  breast. 
And  dream  of  her  beauty  with  tender  dread. 
From  the  delicate  Arab  arch  of  her  feet 
To  the  grace  that,  bright  and  light  as  the  crest 
Of  a peacock,  sits  on  her  shining  head, 

And  she  knows  it  not : O,  if  she  knew  it, 

To  know  her  beauty  might  half  undo  it. 

1 know  it  the  one  bright  thing  to  save 
My  yet  young  life  in  the  wilds  of  Time, 
Perhaps  from  madness,  perhaps  from  crime. 
Perhaps  from  a selfish  grave. 

2. 

What,  if  she  were  fasten’d  to  this  fool  lord. 
Dare  I bid  her  abide  by  her  word  ? 

Should  I love  her  so  well  if  she 
Had  aven  her  word  to  a thing  so  low? 

Shall  I love  her  as  well  if  she 

Can  break  her  word  were  it  even  for  me  ? 

I trust  that  it  is  not  so. 


3- 

Catch  not  my  breath,  O clamorous  heart, 
Let  not  my  tongue  be  a thrall  to- my  eye. 
For  I must  tell  her  before  we  part, 

I must  tell  her,  or  die. 


XVII. 

Go  not,  happy  day, 

From  the  shining  fields. 
Go  not,  happy  day. 

Till  the  maiden  yields. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks, 

And  a rose  her  mouth. 
When  the  happy  Yes 
Falters  from  her  lips. 
Pass  and  blush  the  news 
O’er  the  blowing  ships, 
Over  blowing  seas. 

Over  seas  at  rest. 

Pass  the  happy  news. 

Blush  it  thro’  the  West, 
Till  the  red  man  dance 
By  his  red  cedar-tree. 
And  the  red  man’s  babe 
Leap,  beyond  the  sea. 
Blush  from  West  to  East, 
Blush  from  East  to  West, 
Till  the  West  is  East, 

Blush  it  thro’  the  West. 
Rosy  is  the  West, 

Rosy  is  the  South, 

Roses  are  her  cheeks. 

And  a rose  her  mouth. 


MAUD. 


149 


XVIII. 


I HAVE  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend. 
There  is  none  like  her,  none, 

And  never  yet  so  warmly  ran  my  blood 
And  sweetly,  on  and  on 
Calming  itself  to  the  long-wish’d-for  end, 
Full  to  the  banks,  close  on  the  promised  good. 

2. 

None  like  her,  none. 

Just  now  the  dry-tongued  laurel’s  pattering 
talk 

Seem’d  her  light  foot  along  the  garden  walk, 
And  shook  my  heart  to  think  she  comes  once 
more  ; 

But  even  then  I heard  her  close  the  door. 
The  gates  of  Heaven  are  closed,  and  she  is 
gone. 


There  is  none  like  her,  none. 

Nor  will  be  when  our  summers  have  deceased. 
O,  art  thou  sighing  for  Lebanon 
In  the  long  breeze  that  streams  to  thy  delicious 
East, 

Sighing  for  Lebanon, 

Dark  cedar,  tho’  thy  limbs  have  here  in- 
creased. 

Upon  a pastoral  slope  as  fair. 

And  looking  to  the  South,  and  fed 
With  honey’d  rain  and  delicate  air. 

And  haunted  by  the  starry  head 
Of  her  whose  gentle  will  has  changed  my 
fate. 

And  made  my  life  a perfumed  altar-flame  ; 
And  over  whom  thy  darkness  must  have 
spread 

With  such  delight  as  theirs  of  old,  thy  great 
Forefathers  of  the  thornless  garden,  there 
Shadowing  the  snow-limb’d  Eve  from  whom 
she  came. 

4- 

Here  will  I lie,  while  these  long  branches 
sway, 

And  you  fair  stars  that  crown  a happy  day 
Go  in  and  out  as  if  at  merry  play. 

Who  am  no  more  so  all  forlorn. 

As  when  it  seem’d  far  better  to  be  born 
To  labor  and  the  mattock-harden’d  hand, 
Than  nursed  at  ease  and  brought  to  under- 
stand 

A sad  astrology,  the  boundless  plan 
That  makes  you  tyrants  in  your  iron  skies. 
Innumerable,  pitiless,  passionless  eyes. 

Cold  fires,  yet  with  power  to  burn  and  brand 
His  nothingness  into  man. 

s. 

But  now  shine  on,  and  what  care  I, 

Who  in  this  stormy  gulf  have  found  a pearl 
The  countercharm  of  space  and  hollow  sky. 
And  do  accept  my  madness  and  would  die 
To  save  from  some  slight  shame  one  simple 
girl. 


6. 

Would  die  ; for  sullen  seeming  Death  may 
give 

More  life  to  Love  than  is  or  ever  was 
In  our  low  world,  where  yet ’t  is  sweet  to  live. 
Let  no  one  ask  me  how  it  came  to  pass  ; 

It  seems  that  I am  happy,  that  to  me 
A livelier  emerald  twinkles  in  the  grass, 

A purer  sapphire  melts  into  the  sea. 

7- 

Not  die  ; but  live  a life  of  truest  breath, 

And  teach  true  life  to  fight  with  mortal 
wrongs. 

O,  why  should  Love,  like  men  in  drinking- 
songs, 

Spice  his  feir  banquet  with  the  dust  of  death  ? 
Make  answer,  Maud  my  bliss. 

Maud  made  my  Maud  by  that  long  lover’s 
kiss. 

Life  of  my  life,  wilt  thou  not  answer  this  ? 

“ The  dusky  strand  of  Death  inwoven  here 
With  dear  Love’s  tie,  makes  Love  himself 
more  dear.” 

8. 

Is  that  enchanted  moan  only  the  swell 
Of  the  long  waves  that  roll  in  yonder  bay  ? 
And  hark  the  clock  w'ithin,  the  silver  knell 
Of  twelve  sweet  hours  that  past  in  bridal 
white. 

And  died  to  live,  long  as  my  pulses  play  ; 

But  now  by  this  my  love  has  dosed  her  sight 
And  given  false  death  her  hand,  and  stol’n 
away 

To  dreamful  wastes  where  footless  fancies 
dwell 

Among  the  fragments  of  the  golden  day. 

May  nothing  there  her  maiden  grace  affright  ! 
Dear  heart,  I feel  with  thee  the  drowsy  spell. 
My  bride  to  be,  my  evermore  delight. 

My  own  heart’s  heart  and  ownest  own  fare-  i 
well ; 

It  is  but  for  a little  space  I go 

And  ye  meanwhile  far  over  moor  and  fell 

Beat  to  the  noiseless  music  of  the  night ! 

Has  our  whole  earth  gone  nearer  to  the  glow 
Of  your  soft  splendors  that  you  look  so  bright  ? 

I have  climb’d  nearer  out  of  lonely  Hell. 

Beat,  happy  stars,  timing  with  things  below. 
Beat  with  my  heart  more  blest  than  heart  can 
tell. 

Blest,  but  for  some  dark  undercurrent  woe 
That  seems  to  draw  — but  it  shall  not  be  so  ; 
Let  all  be  well,  be  well. 


XIX. 


Her  brother  is  coming  back  to-night, 
Breaking  up  my  (^eam  of  delight. 

2. 

My  dream  ? do  I dream  of  bliss  ? 

I have  walk’d  awake  with  Truth. 

O when  did  a morning  shine 


150 


MAUD. 


So  rich  in  atonement  as  this 
For  my  dark-dawning  youth, 

Darken’d  watching  a mother  decline 
And  that  dead  man  at  her  heart  and  mine  : 
For  who  was  left  to  watch  her  but  I ? 

Yet  so  did  1 let  my  freshness  die. 

3- 

I trust  that  I did  not  talk 
To  gentle  Maud  in  our  walk 
(For  often  in  lonely  wanderings 
I have  cursed  him  even  to  lifeless  things) 
But  I trust  that  I did  not  talk, 

Not  touch  on  her  father’s  sin  : 

I am  sure  I did  but  speak 
Of  my  mother’s  faded  cheek 
When  it  slowly  grew  so  thin. 

That  I felt  she  was  slowly  dying 
Vext  with  lawyers  and  harass’d  with  debt : 
For  how  often  I caught  her  with  eyes  all  wet, 
Shaking  her  head  at  her  son  and  sighing 
A world  of  trouble  within  ! 

4- 

And  Maud  too,  Maud  was  moved 
To  speak  of  the  mother  she  loved 
As  one  scarce  less  forlorn. 

Dying  abroad  and  it  seems  apart 

From  him  who  had  ceased  to  share  her  heart. 

And  ever  mourning  over  the  feud, 

The  household  F ury  sprinkled  with  blood 
By  which  our  houses  are  torn  ; 

How  strange  was  what  she  said. 

When  only  Maud  and  the  brother 
Hung  over  her  dying  bed,  — 

That  Maud’s  dark  father  and  mine 
Had  bound  us  one  to  the  other. 

Betrothed  us  over  their  wine 
On  the  day  when  Maud  was  born  ; 

Seal’d  her  mine  from  her  first  sweet  breath. 
Mine,  mine  by  a right,  from  birth  till  death, 
Mine,  mine  — our  fathers  have  sworn. 

5- 

But  the  true  blood  spilt  had  in  it  a heat 
To  dissolve  the  precious  seal  on  a bond, 
That,  if  left  uncancell’d,  had  been  so  sweet : 
And  none  of  us  thought  of  a something 
beyond, 

A desire  that  awoke  in  the  heart  of  the  child. 
As  it  were  a duty  done  to  the  tomb, 

To  be  friends  for  her  sake,  to  be  reconciled ; 
And  I was  cursing  them  and  my  doom. 

And  letting  a dangerous  thought  run  wild 
While  often  abroad  in  the  fragrant  gloom 
Of  foreign  churches,  — I see  her  there. 
Bright  English  lily,  breathing  a prayer 
To  be  friends,  to  be  reconciled  ! 

6. 

But  then  what  a flint  is  he  ! 

Abroad,  at  Florence,  at  Rome, 

I find  whenever  she  touch’d  on  me  • 

This  brother  had  laugh’d  her  down. 

And  at  last,  when  each  came  home. 

He  had  darken’d  into  a frown, 


Chid  her,  and  forbid  her  to  speak 
To  me,  her  friend  of  the  years  before  ; 

And  this  was  what  had  redden’d  her  cheek. 
When  I bow’d  to  her  on  the  moor. 

7- 

Yet  Maud,  altho’  not  blind 
To  the  faults  of  his  heart  and  mind, 

I see  she  cannot  but  love  him. 

And  says  he  is  rough  but  kind. 

And  wishes  me  to  approve  him, 

And  tells  me,  when  she  lay 
Sick  once,  with  a fear  of  worse. 

That  he  left  his  wine  and  horses  and  play. 
Sat  with  her,  read  to  her,  night  and  day. 
And  tended  her  like  a nurse. 

8. 

Kind  ? but  the  death-bed  desire 
Spurn’d  by  this  heir  of  the  liar  — 

Rough  but  kind  t yet  I know 
He  has  plotted  against  me  in  this. 

That  he  plots  against  me  still. 

Kind  to  Maud  ? that  were  not  amiss. 

Well,  rough  but  kind  ; why,  let  it  be  so  : 
For  shall  not  Maud  have  her  will  ? 

9- 

For,  Maud,  so  tender  and  true. 

As  long  as  my  life  endures 
I feel  1 shall  oyre  you  a debt, 

That  I never  can  hope  to  pay  ; 

And  if  ever  I should  forget 
That  I owe  this  debt  to  you 
And  for  your  sweet  ^ake  to  yours ; 

0 then,  what  then  shall  I say  ? — 

If  ever  I should  forget. 

May  God  make  me  more  wretched 
Than  ever  I have  been  yet ! 

lO. 

So  now  I have  sworn  to  bury 
All  this  dead  body  of  hate, 

1 feel  so  free  and  so  clear 

By  the  loss  of  that  dead  weight. 

That  I should  grow  light-headed,  I fear. 
Fantastically  merry  ; 

But  that  her  brother  comes,  like  a blight 
On  my  fresh  hope,  to  the  Hall  to-night. 


XX. 


1. 

Strange,  that  I felt  so  gay. 
Strange,  that  I tried  to-day 
To  beguile  her  melancholy  ; 

The  Sultan,  as  w'e  name  him,  — 
She  did  not  wish  to  blame  him  — 
But  he  vext  her  and  perplext  her 
With  his  worldly  talk  and  folly  : 
Was  it  gentle  to  reprove  her 
For  stealing  out  of  view 
From  a little  lazy  lover 
Who  but  claims  her  as  his  due? 

Or  for  chilling  his  caresses 
By  the  coldness  of  her  manners. 
Nay,  the  plainness  of  her  dresses  ? 


MA  UD.  * 151 


Now  I know  her  but  in  t\yo, 

Nor  can  pronounce  upon  it 
If  one  should  ask  me  whether 
The  habit,  hat,  and  feather. 

Or  the  frock  and  gypsy  bonnet 
Be  the  neater  and  completer  ; 

For  nothing  can  be  sweeter 
Than  maiden  Maud  in  either. 

2. 

But  to-morrow,  if  we  live. 

Our  ponderous  squire  will  give 
A grand  political  dinner 
To  half  the  squirelings  near  ; 

And  Maud  will  wear  her  jewels, 

And  the  bird  of  pre>r  will  hover. 

And  the  titmouse  hope  to  win  her 
With  his  chirrup  at  her  ear. 

3- 

A grand  political  dinner 
To  the  men  of  man^’^  acres, 

A gathering  of  the  Tory, 

A dinner  and  then  a dance 
For  the  maids  and  marriage-makers. 
And  every  eye  but  mine  will  glance 
At  Maud  in  all  her  glory. 

4- 

For  I am  not  invited. 

But,  with  the  Sultan’s  pardon, 

I am  all  as  well  delighted. 

For  I know  her  own  rose-garden. 
And  mean  to  linger  in  it 
Till  the  dancing  will  be  over ; 

And  then,  O then,  come  out  to  me 
For  a minute,  but  for  a minute. 
Come  out  to  your  own  true  lover. 
That  your  true  lover  may  see 
Your  glory  also,  and  render 
All  homage  to  his  own  darling, 
Queen  Maud  in  all  her  splendor. 


XXI. 

Rivulet  crossing  my  ground, 

And  bringing  me  down  from  the  Hall 
This  garden-rose  that  I found. 
Forgetful  of  Maud  and  me. 

And  lost  in  trouble  and  moving  round 
Here  at  the  head  of  a tinkling  fall. 
And  trying  to  pass  to  the  sea  ; 

O Rivulet,  born  at  the  Hall, 

My  Maud  has  sent  it  by  thee 
(If  I read  her  sweet  will  right) 

On  a blushing  mission  to  me, 

Saying  in  odor  and  color,  “ Ah,  be 
Among  the  roses  to-night.” 


XXII. 


Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

^ For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flowm. 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

1 am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 


And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad. 
And  the. musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

2. 

For  a breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high. 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a bed  of  daffodil  sky. 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 

To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

3. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon  ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr’d 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune  ; 

Till  a silence  fell  with  the  vyaking  bird, 

And  a hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

4- 

I said  to  the  lily,  “ There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 

When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.” 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone. 

And  half  to  the  rising  day  ; 

Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

5- 

I said  to  the  rose,  “ The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 

But  mine,  but  mine,”  so  I sware  to  the  rose, 
“ For  ever  and  ever,  mine.” 

6. 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood. 
As  the  music  clash’d  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I stood. 

For  I heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the 
wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 

7- 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so 
sweet 

That  whenever  a March-wind  sighs 
He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes. 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

8. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree  ; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea  ; 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  youi 
sake. 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me  ; 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh’d  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 


152 


MAUD. 


9-  ' 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one  ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls. 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

10. 

There  has  fallen  a splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ; 

The  red  rose  cries,  “ She  is  near,  she  is 
near  ” ; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  “ She  is  late”  ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  “ I hear,  I hear  ” ; 
And  the  lily  whispers,  “ 1 wait.” 

11. 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a tread. 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I lain  for  a century  dead  ; 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 


XXIII. 


“ The  fault  was  mine,  the  fault  was  mine  ” 
Why  am  I sitting  here  so  stunn’d  and  still. 
Plucking  the  harmless  wild-flower  on  the 
hill?  — 

It  is  this  guilty  hand  ! — 

And  there  rises  ever  a passionate  cry 
From  underneath  in  the  darkening  land  — 
What  is  it,  that  has  been  done? 

O dawn  of  Eden  bright  over  earth  and  sky, 
The  fires  of  Hell  brake  out  of  thy  rising 
sun. 

The  fires  of  Hell  and  of  Haie  ; 

For  she,  sweet  soul,  had  hardly  spoken  a 
word. 

When  her  brother  ran  in  his  rage  to  the  gate. 
He  came  with  the  babe-faced  lord; 

Heap’d  on  her  terms  of  disgrace. 

And  while  she  wept,  and  I strove  to  be  cool. 
He  fiercely  gave  me  the  lie. 

Till  T with  as  fierce  an  anger  spoke. 

And  he  struck  me,  madman,  over  the  face. 
Struck  me  before  the  languid  fool. 

Who  was  gaping  and  grinning  by  : 

Struck  for  himself  an  evil  stroke  : 

Wrought  for  his  house  an  irredeemable  woe  ; 
For  front  to  front  in  an  hour  we  stood. 

And  a million  horrible  bellowing  echoes 
broke 

From  the  red-ribb’d  hollow  behind  the  wood, 
And  thunder’d  up  into  Heaven  the  Christ- 
less  code. 

That  must  have  life  for  a blow. 


Ever  and  ever  afresh  they  seem’d  to  grow. 

Was  it  he  lay  there  with  a fading  eye  ? 

“ The  fault  was  mine,”  he  whisper’d,  “ fly  ! ” 

Then  glided  out  of  the  joyous  wood 

The  ghastly  Wraith  of  one  that  I know  ; 

And  there  rang  on  a sudden  a passionate 
cry, 

A cry  for  a brother’s  blood  : 

It  will  ring  in  my  heart  and  my  ears,  till  I 
die,  till  I die. 

2. 

Is  it  gone  ? my  pulses  beat  — 

What  was  it  ? a lying  trick  of  the  brain  ? 

Yet  I thought  I saw  her  stand, 

A shadow  there  at  my  feet. 

High  over  the  shadowy  land. 

It  is  gone  ; and  the  heavens  fall  in  a gentle 
rain, 

When  they  should  burst  and  drown  with  del- 
uging storms 

The  feeble  vassals  of  wine  and  anger  and 
lust, 

The  little  hearts  that  know  not  how  to  for- 
give : 

Arise,  my  God,  and  strike,  for  we  hold  Thee 
just. 

Strike  dead  the  whole  weak  race  of  venom- 
ous worms, 

That  sting  each  other  here  in  the  dust ; 

We  are  not  worthy  to  live. 


XXIV. 


See  what  a lovely  shell. 

Small  and  pure  as  a pearl. 

Lying  close  to  my  foot. 

Frail,  but  a work  divine. 

Made  so  fairily  well 

With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 

How  exquisitely  minute, 

A miracle  of  design  ! 

2. 

What  is  it?  a learned  man 
Could  give  it  a clumsy  name. 

Let  him  name  it  who  can. 

The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

3- 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn. 

Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 

Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a rainbow  frill  ? 

Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurl’d, 
A golden  foot  or  a fairy  horn 
Thro’  his  dim  water- world  ? 

4- 

Slight,  to  be  crush’d  with  a tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a work  divine. 

Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 
Year  upon  year,  the  shock 


MAUD. 


Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three-decker’s  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock, 

Here  on  the  Breton  strand  ! 

5- 

Breton,  not  Briton  ; here 

Like  a shipwreck’d  man  on  a coast 

Of  ancient  fable  and  fear,  — 

Plagued  with  a flitting  to  and  fro, 

A disease,  a hard  mechanic  ghost 
That  never  came  from  on  high 
Nor  ever  arose  from  below, 

But  only  moves  with  the  moving  eye. 

Flying  along  the  land  and  the  main,  — 

Why  should  it  look  like  Maud? 

Am  I to  be  overawed 
By  what  I cannot  but  know 
Is  a juggle  born  of  the  brain  ? 

6. 

Back  from  the  Breton  coast, 

Sick  of  a nameless  fear, 

Back  to  the  dark  sea-line 
Looking,  thinking  hf  all  I have  lost ; 

An  old  song  vexes  my  ear  ; 

But  that  of  Lamech  is  mine. 

7- 

For  years,  a measureless  ill. 

For  years,  forever,  to  part, — 

But  she,  she  would  love  me  still ; 

And  as  long,  O God,  as  she 
Have  a grain  of  love  for  me. 

So  long,  no  doubt,  no  doubt. 

Shall  I nurse  in  my  dark  heart. 

However  weary,  a spark  of  will 
Not  to  be  trampled  out. 

8. 

Strange,  that  the  mind,  when  fraught 
With  a passion  so  intense 
One  would  think  that  it  well 
Might  drown  all  life  in  the  eye,  — 

That  it  should,  by  being  so  overwrought. 
Suddenly  strike  on  a sharper  sense 
For  a shell,  or  a flower,  little  things 
Which  else  would  have  been  past  by  ! 

And  now  I remember,  I, 

When  he  lay  dying  there, 

I noticed  one  of  his  many  rings 

(For  he  had  many,  poor  worm)  and  thought 

It  is  his  mother’s  hair. 

9- 

Who  knows  if  he  be  dead  ? 

Whether  I need  have  fled? 

Am  I guilty  of  blood? 

However  this  may  be. 

Comfort  her,  comfort  her,  all  things  good. 
While  I am  over  the  sea  ! 

Let  me  and  my  passionate  love  go  by. 

But  speak  to  her  all  things  holy  and  high, 
Whatever  happen  to  me  ! 

Me  and  my  harmful  love  go  by  ; 

But  come  to  her  waking,  find  her  asleep. 
Powers  of  the  height.  Powers  of  the  deep, 
And  comfort  her  tho’  1 die. 


XXV. 

Courage,  poor  heart  of  stone  ! 

1 will  not  ask  thee  why 
Thou  canst  not  understand 
That  thou  art  left  forever  alone  : 
Courage,  poor  stupid  heart  of  stone.  — 
Or  if  I ask  thee  why. 

Care  not  thou  to  reply : 

She  is  but  dead,  and  the  time  is  at  hand 
When  thou  shall  more  than  die. 


XXVI. 


O THAT ’t  were  possible 
After  long  grief  and  pain 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again  ! 

2. 

When  I was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth. 

We  stood  tranced  m long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  ahything  on  earth. 

3- 

A shadow  flits  before  me. 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  ; 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 

4- 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening. 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 
In  a cold  white  robe  before  me. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights. 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

5- _ 

Half  the  night  I waste  in  sighs. 

Half  in  dreams  I sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies  ; 

In  a wakeful  doze  I sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes. 

For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow. 

The  delight  of  happy  laughter. 

The  delight  of  low  replies. 

6. 

’T  is  a morning  pure  and  sweet. 

And  a dewy  splendor  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 

’T  is  a morning  pure  and  sweet. 

And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 

She  is  walking  in  the  meadow. 

And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; • 

In  a moment  we  shall  meet ; 

She  is  singing  in  the  meadow. 

And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 


154  MAUD. 


Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

7- 

Do  I hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye? 

But  there  rings  on  a sudden  a passionate  cry, 
There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 

And  a sullen  thunder  is  roll’d ; 

For  a tumult  shakes  the  city. 

And  I wake,  my  dream  is  fled ; 

In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold. 

Without  knowledge,  without  pity. 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

8. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again. 

Mix  not  memory  with  doubt. 

Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain. 

Pass  and  cease  to  move  about, 

*T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 

9- 

Then  I rise,  the  eavedrops  fall. 

And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 

The  day  comes,  a dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

10. 

Thro’  the  hubbub  of  the  market 
I steal,  a wasted  frame. 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there. 

Thro’  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud. 

The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 
My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

11. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro’  the  laurels 
At  the  quiet  evenfall. 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

12. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend. 

From  the  realms  of  light  and  song. 

In  the  chamber  or  the  street. 

As  she  looks  among  the  blest. 

Should  I fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  “ forgive  the  wrong,” 

Or  to  ask  her,  “take  me  sweet, 

To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  ” ? 

13- 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats. 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 
And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  I loathe  the  squares  and  streets. 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets. 


Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I long  to  creep 
Into  some  still  cavern  deep. 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 


XXVII. 


Dead,  long  dead, 

Long  dead ! 

And  my  heart  is  a handful  of  dust, 

And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head. 

And  my  bones  are  shaken  with  pain, 

For  into  a shallow  grave  they  are  thrust, 
Only  a yard  beneath  the  street. 

And  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat,  beat, 

The  hoofs  of  the  horses  beat. 

Beat  into  my  scalp  and  my  brain. 

With  never  an  end  to  the  stream  of  passing 
feet. 

Driving,  hurrying,  marrying,  burying. 

Clamor  and  rumble,  and  ringing  and  clatter. 
And  here  beneath  it  is  all  as  bad, 

For  I thought  the  dead  had  peace,  but  it  is 
not  so ; 

To  have  no  peace  in  the  grave,  is  that  not 
sad? 

But  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 

Ever  about  me  the  dead  men  go  ; 

And  then  to  hear  a dead  man  chatter 
Is  enough  to  drive  one  mad. 

2. 

Wretchedest  age,  since  Time  began. 

They  cannot  even  bury  a man ; 

And  tho’  we  paid  our  tithes  in  the  days  that 
are  gone. 

Not  a bell  was  rung,  not  a prayer  was  read  ; 
It  is  that  which  makes  us  loud  in  the  world 
of  the  dead  ; 

There  is  none  that  does  his  work,  not  one  ; 

A touch  of  their  office  might  have  sufficed. 
But  the  churchmen  fain  would  kill  their 
church. 

As  the  churches  have  kill’d  their  Christ. 

3. 

See,  there  is  one  of  us  sobbing, 

No  limit  to  his  distress  ; 

And  another,  a lord  of  all  things,  praying 
To  his  own  great  self,  as  I guess ; 

And  another,  a statesman  there,  betraying 
His  party-secret,  fool,  to  the  press  ; 

And  yonder  a vile  physician,  blabbing 
The  case  of  his  patient,  — all  for  what? 

To  tickle  the  maggot  born  in  an  empty  head, 
And  wheedle  a world  that  loves  him  not, 

For  it  is  but  a world  of  the  dead. 

4- 

Nothing  but  idiot  gabble  ! 

For  the  prophecy  given  of  old 
And  then  not  understood. 

Has  come  to  pass  as  foretold  ; 

Not  let  any  man  think  for  the  public  good. 


MAUD, 


155 


But  babble,  merely  for  babble. 

For  I never  whisper’d  a private  affair 
Within  the  hearing  of  cat  or  mouse, 

No,  not  to  myself  in  the  closet  alone, 

But  I heard  it  shouted  at  once  from  the  top 
of  the  house  ; 

Everything  came  to  be  known  : 

Who  told  him  we  were  there  ? 

5. 

Not  that  gray  old  wolf,  for  he  came  not  back 
From  the  wilderness,  full  of  wolves,  where 
he  used  to  lie  ; 

He  has  gather’d  the  bones  for  his  o’ergrown 
whelp  to  crack ; 

Crack  them  now  for  yourself,  and  howl,  and 
die. 

6. 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip. 

And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat  ; 

1 know  not  whether  he  came  in  the  Hanover 
ship. 

But  I know  that  he  lies  and  listens  mute 
In  an  ancient  mansion’s  crannies  and  holes  : 
Arsenic,  arsenic,  sure,  would  do  it. 

Except  that  now  we  poison  our  babes,  poor 
souls  ! 

It  is  all  used  up  for  that. 

7- 

Tell  him  now : she  is  standing  here  at  my 
head ; 

Not  beautiful  now,  not  even  kind ; 

He  may  take  her  now  ; for  she  never  speaks 
her  mind, 

But  is  ever  the  one  thing  silent  here. 

She  is  not  of  us,  as  I divine  ; 

She  comes  from  another  stiller  world  of  the 
dead. 

Stiller,  not  fairer  than  mine. 

8. 

But  I know  where  a garden  grows. 

Fairer  than  aught  in  the  world  beside. 

All  made  up  of  the  lily  and  rose 

That  blow  by  night,  when  the  season  is  good. 

To  the  sound  of  dancing  music  and  flutes : 

It  is  only  flowers,  they  had  no  fruits. 

And  I almost  fear  they  are  not  roses,  but 
blood ; 

For  the  keeper  was  one,  so  full  of  pride. 

He  linkt  a dead  man  there  to  a spectral 
bride  ; 

For  he,  if  he  had  not  been  a Sultan  of  brutes. 
Would  he  have  that  hole  in  his  side  ? 

9- 

But  what  will  the  old  man  say? 

He  laid  a cruel  snare  in  a pit 
To  catch  a friend  of  mine  one  stormy  day ; 
Yet  now  I could  even  weep  to  think  of  it ; 
For  what  will  the  old  man  say 
When  he  comes  to  the  second  corpse  in  the 
pit  ? 

10. 

Friend,  to  be  struck  by  the  public  foe. 

Then  to  strike  him  and  lay  him  low, 


That  were  a public  merit,  far. 

Whatever  the  Quaker  holds,  from  sin  ; 

But  the  red  life  spilt  for  a private  blow  — 

I swear  to  you,  lawful  and  lawless  war 
Are  scarcely  even  akin. 

II. 

0 me,  w'hy  have  they  not  buried  me  deep 

enough  ? 

Is  it  kind  to  have  made  me  a grave  so  rough, 
Me,  that  was  never  a quiet  sleeper? 

Maybe  still  I am  but  half-dead  ; 

Then  I cannot  be  wholly  dumb  ; 

1 will  cry  to  the  steps  above  my  head. 

And  somebody,  surely,  some  kind  heart  will 
come 

To  bury  me,  bury  me 
Deeper,  ever  so  little  deeper. 

XXVIII. 


My  life  has  crept  so  long  on  a broken  wing 

Thro’  cells  of  madness,  haunts  of  horror  and 
fear. 

That  I come  to  be  grateful  at  last  for  a little 
thing : 

My  mood  is  changed,  for  it  fell  at  a time  of 
year 

When  the  face  of  night  is  fair  on  the  dewy 
downs. 

And  the  shining  daffodil  dies,  and  the  Chari- 
oteer 

And  starry  Gemini  hang  like  glorious  crowns 

Over  Orion’s  grave  low  down  in  the  west. 

That  like  a silent  lightning  under  the  stars 

She  seem’d  to  divide  in  a dream  from  a band 
of  the  blest. 

And  spoke  of  a hope  for  the  w'orld  in  the 
coming  wars  — 

“ And  in  that  hope,  dear  soul,  let  trouble 
have  rest. 

Knowing  I tarry  for  thee,”  and  pointed  to 
Mars 

As  he  glow’d  like  a ruddy  shield  on  the 
Lion’s  breast. 


And  it  was  but  a dream,  yet  it  yielded  a dear 
delight 

To  have  look’d,  tho’  but  in  a dream,  upon 
eyes  so  fair. 

That  had  been  in  a weary  world  my  one  thing 
bright ; 

And  it  was  but  a dream,  yet  it  lighten’d  my 
despair 

When  I thought  that  a war  would  arise  in 
defence  of  the  right, 

That  an  iron  tyranny  now  should  bend  or 
cease. 

The  glory  of  manhood  stand  on  his  ancient 
height. 

Nor  Britain’s  one  sole  God  be  the  million- 
naire  : 

No  more  shall  commerce  be  all  in  all*  and 
Peace 


THE  BROOK. 


156 

Pipe  on  her  pastoral  hillock  a languid  note, 

And  watch  her  harvest  ripen,  her  herd  in- 
crease, 

Nor  the  cannon-bullet  rust  on  a slothful 
shore. 

And  the  cobweb  woven  across  the  cannon’s 
throat 

Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no 
more. 

3- 

And  as  months  ran  on  and  rumor  of  battle 
grew, 

“ It  is  time,  it  is  time,  O passionate  heart,” 
said  I 

(For  I cleaved  to  a cause  that  I felt  to  be  pure 
and  true), 

“ It  is  time,  O passionate  heart  and  morbid 
eye. 

That  old  hysterical  mock-disease  should 
die.” 

And  I stood  on  a giant  deck  and  mix’d  my 
breath 

With  a loyal  people  shouting  a battle  cry. 

Till  I saw  the  dreary  phantom  arise  and  fly 

Far  into  the  North,  and  battle,  and  seas  of 
death. 

4* 

Let  it  go  or  stay,  so  I wake  to  the  higher  aims 

Of  a land  that  has  lost  for  a little  her  lust  of 
gold. 

And  love  of  a peace  that  was  full  of  wrongs 
and  shames, 

Horrible,  hateful,  monstrous,  not  to  be  told  ; 

And  hail  once  more  to  the  banner  of  battle 
unroll’d  ! 

Tho’  many  a light  shall  darken,  and  many 
shall  weep 

For  those  that  are  crush’d  in  the  clash  of  jar- 
ring claims. 

Yet  God’s  just  wrath  shall  be  wreak’d  on  a 
giant  liar ; 

And  many  a darkness  into  the  light  shall 
leap, 

And  shine  in  the  sudden  making  of  splendid 
names. 

And  noble  thought  be  freer  under  the  sun. 

And  the  heart  of  a people  beat  with  one  de- 
sire ; 

For  the  peace,  that  I deem’d  no  peace,  is 
over  and  done. 

And  now  by  the  side  of  the  Black  and  the 
Baltic  deep. 

And  deathful-grinning  mouths  of  the  fortress 
flames 

The  blood-red  blossom  of  war  with  a heart 
of  fire. 

5. 

Let  it  flame  or  fade,  and  the  war  roll  down 
like  a wind. 

We  have  proved  we  have  hearts  in  a cause, 
we  are  noble  still, 

And  myself  have  awaked,  as  it  seems,  to  the 
better  mind  ; 

It  is  better  to  fight  for  the  good,  than  to  rail 
at  the  ill ; 


I have  felt  with  my  native  land,  I am  one 
with  my  kind, 

I embrace  the  purpose  of  God,  and  the  doom 
assign’d. 


THE  BROOK; 

AN  IDYL. 

“ Here,  by  this  brook,  we  parted  ; I to  the 
East 

And  he  for  Italy  — too  late  — too  late  : 

One  whom  the  strong  sons  of  the  world  de- 
spise ; 

For  lucky  rhymes  to  him  were  scrip  and 
share. 

And  mellow  metres  more  than  cent  for  cent ; 
Nor  could  he  understand  how  money  breeds. 
Thought  it  a dead  thing  ; yet  himself  could 
make 

The  thing  that  is  not  as  the  thing  that  is. 

0 had  he  lived  ! In  our  school  books  we  say, 
Of  those  that  held  their  heads  above  the 

crowd. 

They  flourish’d  then  or  then  ; but  life  in  him 
Could  scarce  be  said  to  flourish,  only  touch’d 
On  such  a time  as  goes  before  the  leaf. 

When  all  the  wood  stands  in  a mist  of  green. 
And  nothing  perfect  : yet  the  brook  he  loved. 
For  which,  in  branding  summers  of  Bengal, 
Or  ev’n  the  sweet  half-English  Neilgherry 
air, 

1 panted,  seems,  as  I re-listen  to  it. 

Prattling  the  primrose  fancies  of  the  boy. 

To  me  that  loved  him  ; for  ‘ O brook,’  he 

says, 

‘O  babbling  brook,’  says  Edmund  in  his 
rhyme, 

‘ Whence  come  you  ? ’ and  the  brook,  why 
not  ? replies. 

I come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem, 

I make  a sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern. 

To  bicker  down  a valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I hurry  down. 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a little  town. 

And  half  a hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip’s  farm  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I go  on  forever. 

“ Poor  lad,  he  died  at  Florence,  quite  worn 
out, 

Travelling  to  Naples.  There  is  Daraley 
bridge. 

It  has  more  ivy ; there  the  river  ; and  there 
Stands  Philip’s  farm  where  brook  and  river 
meet. 

I chatter  over  stony  ways. 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I babble  on  the  pebbles. 


THE  BROOK.  157 


With  many  a curve  my  banks  I fret 
By  many  a field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow- weed  and  mallow. 

I chatter,  chatter,  as  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  forever. 

But  Philip  chatter’d  more  than  brook  or 
bird  ; 

Old  Philip  ; all  about  the  fields  you  caught 

His  weary  daylong  chirping,  like  the  dry 
High-elbow’d  grigs  that  leap  in  summer  grass. 

I wind  about,  and  in  and  out. 

With  here  a blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a grayling. 

And  .here  and  there  a foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I travel 
With  many  a silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river. 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I go  on  forever. 

“O  darling  Katie  Willows,  his  one  child  ! 
A maiden  of  our  century,  yet  most  meek  ; 

A daughter  of  our  meadows,  yet  not  coarse  ; 
Straight,  but  as  lissome  as  a hazel  wand  ; 
Her  eyes  a bashful  azure,  and  her  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within. 

“ Sweet  Katie,  once  I did  her  a good  turn, 
Her  and  her  far-off  cousin  and  betrothed, 
James  Willows,  of  one  name  and  heart  with 
her. 

F or  here  I came,  twenty  years  back,  — the 
week 

Before  I parted  with  poor  Edmund  ; crost 
By  that  old  bridge  which,  half  in  ruins  then, 
Still  makes  a hoary  eyebrow  for  the  gleam 
Beyond  it,  where  the  waters  marry.  — crost, 
Whistling  a random  bar  of  Bonny  Doon, 
And  push’d  at  Philip’s  garden-gate.  The 
gate. 

Half-parted  from  a weak  and  scolding  hinge, 
Stuck  ; and  he  clamor’d  from  a casement, 
‘ run  ’ 

To  Katie  somewhere  in  the  walks  below, 

‘ Run,  Katie  ! ’ Katie  never  ran  : slie  moved 
To  meet  me,  winding  under  woodbine  bowers, 
A little  flutter’d  with  her  eyelids  down. 

Fresh  apple-blossom,  blushing  for  a boon. 

“What  was  it?  less  of  sentiment  than 
sense 

Had  Katie  ; not  illiterate  ; neither  one 
Who  dabbling  in  the  fount  of  Active  tears. 
And  nursed  by  mealy-mouthed  philanthro- 
pies. 

Divorce  the  Feeling  from  her  mate  the  Deed. 


“ She  told  me.  She  and  James  had  quar- 
rell’d.  Why  ? 

What  cause  of  quarrel?  None,  she  said,  no 
cause  ; 

James  had  no  cause : but  when  I prest  the 
cause, 

I learnt  that  James  had  flickering  jealousies 
Which  anger’d  her.  Who  anger’d  James?  1 
said. 

But  Katie  snatch’d  her  eyes  at  once  from 
mine. 

And  sketching  with  her  slender-pointed  foot 
Some  figure  like  a wizard’s  pentagram 
On  garden  gravel,  let  my  query  pass 
Unclaim’d,  in  flushing  silence,  till  I ask’d 
If  James  were  coming.  ‘ Coming  everyday,* 
She  answer’d,  ‘ ever  longing  to  explain. 

But  evermore  her  father  came  across 
With  some  long-winded  tale,  and  broke  him 
short ; 

And  James  departed  vext  with  him  and  her.’ 
How  could  I help  her?  ‘Would  I — was  it 
wrong  ? ’ 

(Claspt  hands  and  that  petitionary  grace 
Of  sweet  seventeen  subdued  me  ere  she 
spoke) 

‘ O would  I take  her  father  for  one  hour. 

For  one  half-hour,  and  let  him  talk  to  me  ! ’ 
And  even  while  she  spoke,  I saw  where 
James 

Made  towards  us,  like  a wader  in  the  surf. 
Beyond  the  brook,  waist-deep  in  meadow- 
sweet. 

“ O Katie,  what  I suffer’d  for  your  sake  ! 
For  in  I went  and  call’d  old  Philip  out 
To  show  the  farm  : full  willingly  he  rose  : 

He  led  me  thro’  the  short  sweet-smelling 
lanes 

Of  his  wheat  suburb,  babbling  as  he  went. 
He  praised  his  land,  his  horses,  his  machines; 
He  praised  his  ploughs,  his  cows,  his  hogs, 
his  dogs  ; 

He  praised  his  hens,  his  geese,  his  guinea- 
hens  ; 

His  pigeons,  who  in  session  on  their  roofs 
Approved  him,  bowing  at  their  own  deserts : 
Then  from  the  plaintive  mother’s  teat, he  took 
Her  blind  and  shuddering  puppies,  naming 
each. 

And  naming  those,  his  friends,  for  whom 
they  were  : 

Then  crost  the  common  into  Damley  chase 
To  show  Sir  Arthur’s  deer.  In  copse  and  fern 
Twinkled  the  innumerable  ear  and  tail. 
Then,  seated  on  a serpent-rooted  beech. 

He  pointed  out  a pasturing  colt,  and  said  : 

‘ That  was  the  four-year-old  I sold  the 
squire.’ 

And  there  he  told  a long,  long-winded  tale 
Of  how  the  squire  had  seen  the  colt  at  grass, 
And  how  it  was  the  thing  his  daughter  wish’d, 
And  how  he  sent  the  bailiff  to  the  farm 
To  learn  the  price,  and  what  the  price  he 
ask’d. 

And  how  the  bailiff  swore  that  he  was  mad. 
But  he  stood  firm  ; and  so  the  matter  hung ; 
He  gave  them  line  ; and  five  days  after  that 


158  THE  LETTERS. 


He  met  the  bailiff  at  the  Golden  Fleece, 
Who  then  and  there  had  offer’d  something 
more, 

But  he  stood  firm  ; and  so  the  matter  hung ; 
He  knew  the  man  ; the  colt  would  fetch  its 
price  ; 

He  gave  them  line  : and  how  by  chance  at 
last 

(It  might  be  May  or  April,  he  forgot. 

The  last  of  April  or  the  first  of  May) 

He  found  the  bailiff  riding  by  the  farm. 

And,  talking  from  the  point,  he  drew  him  in. 
And  there  he  mellow’d  all  his  heart  with  ale. 
Until  they  closed  a bargain,  hand  in  hand. 

“ Then,  while  I breathed  in  sight  of  haven, 
he, 

Poor  fellow,  could  he  help  it?  recommenced. 
And  ran  thro’  all  the  coltish  chronicle. 

Wild  Will,  Black  Bess,  Tantivy,  Tallyho, 
Reform,  White  Rose,  Bellerophon,  the  Jilt, 
Arbaces  and  Phenomenon,  and  the  rest. 

Till,  not  to  die  a listener,  I arose. 

And  with  me  Philip,  talking  still ; and  so 
We  turn’d  our  foreheads  from  the  falling  sun. 
And  following  our  own  shadows  thrice  as  long 
As  when  they  follow’d  us  from  Philip’s  door. 
Arrived,  and  found  the  sun  of  sweet  content 
Re-risen  in  Katie’s  eyes,  and  all  things  well. 

I steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 

I move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I slip,  I slide,  I gloom,  I glance. 

Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I murmur  under  moon  and  stars 
In  brambly  wildernesses  ; 

1 linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I curve  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 

But  I go  on  forever. 


Old  waifs  of  rhyme,  and  bowing  o’er  the  brook 
A tonsured  head  in  middle  age  forlorn. 
Mused,  and  was  mute.  On  a sudden  a low 
breath 

Of  tender  air  made  tremble  in  the  hedge 
The  fragile  bindweed-bells  and  briony  rings ; 
And  he  look’d  up.  There  stood  a maiden 
near. 

Waiting  to  pass.  In  much  amaze  he  stared 
On  eyes  a bashful  azure,  and  on  hair 
In  gloss  and  hue  the  chestnut,  when  the  shell 
Divides  threefold  to  show  the  fruit  within  : 
Then,  wondering,  ask’d  her,  “ Are  you  from 
the  farm  ? ” 

“ Yes,”  answer’d  she.  “ Pray  stay  a little  : 
pardon  me ; 

What  do  they  call  you  ? ” “Katie.”  “That 
were  strange. 

What  surname?”  “Willows.”  “No!” 
“ That  is  my  name.” 

“ Indeed  ! ” and  here  he  look’d  so  self-per- 
plext. 

That  Katie  laugh’d,  and  laughing  blush’d, 
till  he 

Laugh’d  also,  but  as  one  before  he  wakes. 
Who  feels  a glimmering  strangeness  in  his 
dream. 

Then  looking  at  her ; “ Too  happy,  fresh  and 
fair. 

Too  fresh  and  fair  in  our  sad  world’s  best 
bloom. 

To  be  the  ghost  of  one  who  bore  your  name 
About  these  meadows,  twenty  years  ago.” 

“ Have  you  not  heard?”  said  Katie,  “ we 
came  back. 

We  bought  the  farm  we  tenanted  before. 

Am  I so  like  her  ? so  they  said  on  board. 

Sir,  if  you  knew  her  in  her  English  days. 

My  mother,  as  it  seems  you  did,  the  days 
That  most  she  loves  to  talk  of,  come  with  me. 
My  brother  James  is  in  the  harvest-field  : 
But  she  — you  will  be  welcome  — O,  come 
in  I ” 


THE  LETTERS. 


Yes,  men  may  come  and  go ; and  these  are 
gone. 

All  gone.  My  dearest  brother,  Edmund, 
sleeps. 

Not  by  the  well-known  stream  and  rustic 
spire. 

But  unfamiliar  Arno,  and  the  dome 
Of  Brunelleschi ; sleeps  in  peace  : and  he. 
Poor  Philip,  of  all  his  lavish  waste  of  words 
Remains  the  lean  P.  W.  on  his  tomb  : 

I scraped  the  lichen  from  it : Katie  walks 
By  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas 
Far  off,  and  holds  her  head  to  other  stars. 
And  breathes  in  converse  seasons.  All  are 
gone.” 

So  Lawrence  Aylmer,  seated  on  a stile 
In  the  long  hedge,  and  rolling  in  his  mind 


Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 

A black  yew  gloom’d  the  stagnant  air, 

I peer’d  athwart  the  chancel  pane 
And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 

A clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A band  of  pain  across  my  brow  ; 

“ Cold  altar.  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 
Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow.” 

2. 

I turn’d  and  humm’d  a bitter  song 
That  mock’d  the  wholesome  human  heart. 

And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 

Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry  ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved ; 

I saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 
She  wore  the  colors  I approved. 


• 

ODE  ON  THE  DEA  TH  OF  T 

3. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a sigh  she  turn’d  the  key, 

Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest. 
And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 

And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings. 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could  please ; 
As  looks  a father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I look’d  on  these. 

4- 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I raged  against  the  public  liar  ; 

She  talk’d  as  if  her  love  were  dead. 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 

“No  more  of  love  ; your  sex  is  known  : 

I never  will  be  twice  deceived. 

Henceforth  I trust  the  man  alone. 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 

5- 

“ Thro’  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 
(And  women’s  slander  is  the  worst), 

And  you,  whom  once  1 lov’d  so  well. 

Thro’  you,  my  life  will  be  acccirst.” 

I spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms  •— 
Like  torrents  from  a mountain  source 

We  rush’d  into  each  other’s  arms. 

6. 

We  parted  : sweetly  gleam’d  the  stars. 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue. 

Low  breezes  fann’d  the  belfry  bars. 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I drew. 

The  very  graves  appear’d  to  smile. 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow’d  swells  ; 

“ Dark  porch,”  I said,  “ and  silent  aisle 
There  comes  a sound  of  marriage  bells.” 

ODE  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE 
DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON. 

1. 

Bury  the  Great  Duke 

With  an  empire’s  lamentation, 

Let  us  bury  the  Great  Duke 

To  the  noise  of  the  mourning  of  a mighty 
nation,  • 

Mourning  when  their  leaders  fall. 

Warriors  carry  the  warrior’s  pall. 

And  sorrow  darkens  hamlet  and  hall. 

2. 

Where  shall  we  lay  the  man  whom  we  de- 
plore? 

Here,  in  streaming  London’s  central  roar. 

Let  the  sound  of  those  he  wrought  for. 

And  the  feet  of  those  he  fought  for, 

Echo  round  his  bones  forevermore. 

3- 

Lead  out  the  pageant : sad  and  slow. 

As  fits  an  universal  woe, 

HE  Din^E  OF  WELLINGTON  159 

Let  the  long  long  procession  go. 

And  let  the  sorrowing  crowd  about  it  grow. 
And  let  the  mournful  martial  music  blow'; 

The  last  great  Englishman  is  low. 

4- 

Mourn,  for  to  us  he  seems  the  last. 
Remembering  all  his  greatness  in  the  Past. 
No  more  in  soldier  fashion  will  he  greet 

With  lifted  hand  the  gazer  in  the  street. 

0 friends,  our  chief  state-oracle  is  dead  ; 
Mourn  for  the  man  of  long-enduring  blood. 
The  statesman-warrior,  moderate,  resolute, 
Whole  in  himself,  a common  good. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  amplest  influence, 

Yet  clearest  of  ambitious  crime, 

Our  greatest  yet  with  least  pretence. 

Great  in  council  and  great  in  war. 

Foremost  captain  of  his  time. 

Rich  in  saving  common-sense, 

And,  as  the  greatest  only  are. 

In  his  simplicity  sublime. 

0 good  gray  head  which  all  men  knew, 

0 voice  from  which  their  omens  all  men 
drew, 

0 iron  nerve  to  true  occasion  true, 

0 fall’ll  at  length  that  tower  of  strength 
Which  stood  four-square  to  all  the  winds  that 
blew  ! 

Such  was  he  w'hom  we  deplore. 

The  long  self-sacrifice  of  life  is  o’er. 

The  great  World-victor’s  victor  will  be  seen 
no  more. 

5* 

All  is  over  and  done  : 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

England,  for  thy  son. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d. 

Render  thanks  to  the  Giver, 

And  render  him  to  the  mould. 

Under  the  cross  of  gold 

That  shines  over  city  and  river. 

There  he  shall  rest  forever 

Among  the  wfise  and  the  bold. 

Let  the  bell  be  toll’d  : 

And  a reverent  people  behold 

The  towering  car,  the  sable  steeds  : 

Bright  let  it  be  with  his  blazon’d  deeds, 

Dark  in  its  funeral  fold. 

Let  the  bell  be  tolled  : 

And  a deeper  knell  in  the  heart  be  knoH’d ; 
And  the  sound  of  the  sorrowing  anthem 
roll’d 

Thro’  the  dome  of  the  golden  cross  ; 

And  the  volleying  cannon  thunder  his  loss  ; 

He  knew  their  voices  of  old. 

For  many  a time  in  many  a clime 

His  captain’s-ear  has  heard  them  boom 
Bellowing  victory,  bellowing  doom  ; 

When  he  w'ith  those  deep  voices  wrought. 
Guarding  realms  and  kings  from  shame  ; 

With  those  deep  voices  our  dead  captain 
taught 

The  tyrant,  and  asserts  his  claim  ’ 

In  that  dread  sound  to  the  great  name, 

Which  he  has  worn  so  pure  of  blame. 

In  praise  and  in  dispraise  the  same. 

i6o  ODE  ON  THE  DEA  TH  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON 


A man  of  well-attemper’d  frame. 

O civic  muse,  to  such  a name, 

To  such  a name  for  ages  long, 

To  such  a name, 

Preserve  a broad  approach  of  fame, 

And  ever-ringing  avenues  of  song. 

6. 

Who  is  he  that  cometh,  like  an  honor’d 
guest. 

With  banner  and  with  music,  with  soldier 
and  with  priest. 

With  a nation  weeping,  and  breaking  on  my 
rest  ? 

Mighty  seaman,  this  is  he 
Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea. 

Thine  island  loves  thee  well,  thou  famous 
man, 

The  greatest  sailor  since  our  world  began. 
Now,  to  the  roll  of  mufhed  drums. 

To  thee  the  greatest  soldier  comes  ; 

For  this  is  he 

Was  great  by  land  as  thou  by  sea  ; 

His  foes  were  thine  ; he  kept  us  free  ; 

O give  him  welcome,  this  is  he, 

Worthy  of  our  gorgeous  rites. 

And  worthy  to  be  laid  by  thee  ; 

For  this  is  England’s  greatest  son, 

He  that  gain’d  a hundred  fights, 

Nor  ever  lost  an  English  gun  ; 

This  is  he  that  far  away 
Against  the  myriads  of  Assaye 
Clash’d  with  his  fiery  few  and  won ; 

And  underneath  another  sun, 

Warring  on  a later  day, 

Round  affrighted  Lisbon  drew^ 

The  treble  works,  the  vast  designs 
Of  his  labor’d  rampart-lines. 

Where  he  greatly  stood  at  bay. 

Whence  he  issued  forth  anew. 

And  ever  great  and  greater  grew, 

Beating  from  the  wasted  vines 
Back  to  France  her  banded  swarms. 

Back  to  France  with  countless  blows, 

Till  o’er  the  hills  her  eagles  flew 
Past  the  Pyrenean  pines, 

Follow’d  up  in  valley  and  glen 
With  blare  of  bugle,  clamor  of  men. 

Roll  of  cannon  and  clash  of  arms, 

And  England  pouring  on  her  foes. 

Such  a war  had  such  a close. 

Again  their  ravening  eagle  rose 
In  anger,  wheel’d  on  Europe-shadowing 
wings, 

And  barking  for  the  thrones  of  kings  ; 

Till  one  that  sought  but  Duty’s  iron  crown 
On  that  loud  sabbath  shook  the  spoiler 
down  ; 

A day  of  onsets  of  despair  ! 

Dash’d  on  every  rocky  square 
Their  surging  charges  foam’d  themselves 
away  ; 

Last,  the  Prussian  trumpet  blew  ; 

Thro’  the  long-tormented  air 
Heaven  flash’d  a sudden  jubilant  ray. 

And  down  we  swept  and  charged  and  over- 
threw. 

So  great  a soldier  taught  us  there, 


What  long-enduring  hearts  could  do 
In  that  world’s-earthquake,  Waterloo  ! 
Mighty  seaman,  tender  and  true. 

And  pure  as  he  from  taint  of  craven  guile, 

O savior  of  the  silver-coasted  isle, 

O shaker  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Nile, 

If  aught  of  things  that  here  befall 
Touch  a spirit  among  things  divine. 

If  love  of  country  move  thee  there  at  all, 

Be  glad,  because  his  bones  are  laid  by  thine  ! 
And  thro’-  the  centuries  lei  a people’s  voice 
In  full  acclaim, 

A people’s  voice. 

The  proof  and  echo  of  all  human  fame, 

A people’s  voice,  when  they  rejoice 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game, 

Attest  their  great  commander’s  claim 
With  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 

Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

7- 

A people’s  voice  ! we  are  a people  yet. 

Tho’  all  men  else  their  nobler  dreams  forget 
Confused  by  brainless  mobs  and  lawless 
Powers  ; 

Thank  Him  who  isled  us  here,  and  roughly 
set 

His  Saxon  in  blown  seas  and  storming 
showers. 

We  have  a voice,  with  which  to  pay  the  debt 
Of  boundless  love  and  reverence  and  regret 
To  those  great  men  who  fought,  and  kept  :t 
ours. 

And  keep  it  ours,  O God,  from  brute  control ; 
O Statesmen,  guard  us,  guard  the  eye,  the 
soul 

Of  Europe,  keep  our  noble  England  whole. 
And  save  the  one  true  seed  of  freedom 
sown 

Betwixt  a people  and  their  ancient  throne, 
That  sober  freedom  out  of  which  there 
springs  ^ 

Our  loyal  passion  for  our  temperate  kings  ; 
For,  saving  that,  ye  help  to  save  mankind 
Till  public  wrong  be  crumbled  into  dust, 
And  drill  the  raw  world  for  the  march  of 
mind, 

Till  crowds  at  length  be  sane  and  crowns  be 
just. 

But  wink  no  more  in  slothful  overtrust. 
Remember  him  who  jed  your  hosts  ; 

He  bade  you  guard  the  sacred  coasts. 

Your  cannons  moulder  on  the  seaward  wall ; 
His  voice  is  silent  in  your  council-hall 
Forever  ; and  whatever  tempests  low^er 
Forever  silent ; even  if  they  broke 
In  thunder,  silent  ; yet  remember  all 
He  spoke  among  you,  and  the  Man  who 
spoke  ; 

Who  never  sold  the  truth  to  serve  the  hour. 
Nor  palter’d  with  Eternal  God  for  power  ; 
Who  let  the  turbid  streams  of  rumor  flow 
Thro’  either  babbling  world  of  high  and  low  ; 
Whose  life  was  work,  whose  language  rife 
With  rugged  maxims  hewn  from  life  ; 

Who  never  spoke  against  a foe  ; 

Whose  eighty  winters  freeze  with  one  rebuke 
All  great  self-seekers  trampling  on  the  right ; 


'I 


THE  DAISY.  i5i 


Truth-teller  was  our  England’s  Alfred 
named ; 

Truth-lover  was  our  English  Duke  ; 
Whatever  record  leap  to  light 
He  never  shall  be  shamed. 

8. 

Lo,  the  leader  in  these  glonous  wars 
Now  to  glorious  burial  slowly  borne, 
Follow’d  by  the  brave  of  other  lands, 

He,  on  whom  from  both  her  open  hands 
Lavish  Honor  shower’d  all  her  stars. 

And  affluent  Fortune  emptied  all  her  horn. 
Yea,  let  all  good  things  await 
Him  who  cares  not  to  be  great. 

But  as  he  saves  or  serves  the  state. 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  rough  island-story, 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 

He  that  walks  it,  only  thirsting  • 

For  the  right,  and  learns  to  deaden 
Love  of  self,  before  his  journey  closes. 

He  shall  find  the  stubborn  thistle  bursting 
Into  glossy  purples,  which  outredden 
All  voluptuous  garden-roses.  ^ 

Not  once  or  twice  in  our  fair  island-story. 
The  path  of  duty  was  the  way  to  glory  : 

He,  that  ever  following  her  commands, 

On  with  toil  of  heart  and  knees  and  hands. 
Thro’  the  long  gorge  to  the  far  light  has  won 
His  path  upward,  and  prevail’d, 

Shall  find  the  toppling  crags  of  Duty  scaled 
Are  close  upon  the  shining  table-lands 
To  which  our  God  Himself  is  moon  and  sun. 
Such  was  he  : his  work  is  done. 

But  while  the  races  of  mankind  endure, 

Let  his  great  example  stand 
Colossal,  seen  of  every  land. 

And  keep  the  soldier  firm,  the  statesman 
pure ; 

Till  in  all  lands  and  thro’  all  human  story 
The  path  of  duty  be  the  way  to  glory : 

And  let  the  land  whose  hearths  he  saved  from 
shame 

For  many  and  many  an  age  proclaim 
At  civic  revel  and  pomp  and  game. 

And  when  the  long-illumined  cities  flame, 
Their  ever-loyal  iron  leader’s  fame. 

With  honor,  honor,  honor,  honor  to  him, 
Eternal  honor  to  his  name. 

9- 

Peace,  his  triumph  will  be  sung 

By  some  yet  unmoulded  tongue 

Far  on  in  summers  that  we  shall  not  see  : 

Peace,  it  is  a day  of  pain 

For  one  about  whose  patriarchal  knee 

Late  the  little  children  clung  ; 

O peace,  it  is  a day  of  pain 
For  one,  upon  whose  hand  and  heart  and 
brain 

Once  the  weight  and  fate  of  Europe  hung. 
Ours  the  pain,  be  his  the  gain  ! 

More  than  is  of  man’s  degree 
Must  be  with  us,  watching  here 
m this,  our  great  solemnity. 

Whom  we  see  not  we  revere. 

We  revere,  and  we  refrain 
From  talk  of  battles  loud  and  vain, 


And  brawling  memories  all  too  free 
For  such  a wise  humility 
As  befits  a solemn  fane  : 

We  revere,  and  while  we  hear 
The  tides  of  Music’s  golden  sea 
Setting  tovyard  eternity. 

Uplifted  high  in  heart  and  hope  are  we. 
Until  we  doubt  not  that  for  one  so  true 
There  must  be  other  nobler  work  to  do 
Than  when  he  fought  at  Waterloo, 

And  Victor  he  must  ever  be. 

For  tho’  the  Giant  Ages  heave  the  hill 
And  break  the  shore,  and  evermore 
Make  and  break,  and  work  their  will ; 

Tho’  world  on  world  in  myriad  myriads  roll 
Round  us,  each  with  different  powers. 

And  other  forms  of  life  than  ours. 

What  know  we  greater  than  the  soul? 

On  God  and  Godlike  men  we  build  our  trust. 
Hush,  the  Dead  March  w'ails  in  the  people  s 
ears : 

The  dark  crowd  moves,  and  there  are  sobs 
and  tears : 

The  black  earth  yawns:  the  mortal  disap- 
pears ; 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust ; 

He  is  gone  who  seem’d  so  great,  -p- 
Gone;  but  nothing  can  bereave  him 
Of  the  force  he  made  his  owm 
Being  here,  and  we  believe  him 
Something  far  advanced  in  state. 

And  that  he  wears  a truer  crown 

Than  any  wreath  that  man  can  weave  him. 

But  speak  no  more  of  his  renown. 

Lay  your  earthly  fancies  down, 

And  in  the  vast  cathedral  leave  him. 

God  accept  him,  Christ  receive  him. 

1S52. 


THE  DAISY. 

WRITTEN  AT  EDINBURGH. 

O Love,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine. 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine  ; 

In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom. 

Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 

I 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  show’d 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road: 

How  like  a gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow’d. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 
To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters. 

That  only  heaved  with  a summer  swell. 

Whaf  slender  campanili  grew 
By  bays,  the  peacock’s  neck  in  hue  ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A milky-bell’d  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seem’d  to  rove. 

Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove. 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a purple  cove. 


i62  to  the  rev.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 


Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean’s  rim  ; 

Till,  in  a narrow  street  and  dim, 

I stay’d  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 

And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him. 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 

Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast : 

Hut  distant  color,  happy  hamlet, 

A moulder’d  citadel  on  the  coast, 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A light  amid  its  olives  green  ; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean  ; 

Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine. 

Where  oleanders  flush’d  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread  ; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a mountain  head 

We  loved  that  hall,  tho’  white  and  cold. 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 

A princely  people’s  awful  princes, 

'Ihe  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence  too  what  golden  hours, 

In  those  long  galleries,  were  ours; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 

Or  walks  in  Boboli’s  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 

Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet. 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glitter’d. 

Thro’  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a plague  of  rain  ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 

At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 

And  stern  and  sad  ''so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight'  look’d  the  Lombard  piles; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 

And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0 Milan,  O the  chanting  quires. 

The  giant  windows’  blazon’d  fires. 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory ! 
A mount  of  marble,  a hundred  spires  ! 

1 climb’d  the  roofs  at  break  of  day  ; 

Sun -smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I stood  among  the  silent  statues. 

And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly-flush’d,  how  phantom-fair. 

Was  Monte  Rosa,  hanging  there 

A thousand  shadowy-pencill’d  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
To  Como  ; show  er  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit. 

And  all  w’as  flooded  ; and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  w'as  gray. 

And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way. 


Like  ballad-burthen  music,  kept,  ^ 

As  on  the  Lariano  crept 
To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  w’e  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watch’d  awake 
A cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The  moonlight  touching  o’er  a terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more  ? we  took  our  last  adieu. 

And  up  the  snowy  Splugen  drew. 

But  ere  we  reach’d  the  highest  summit 
I pluck’d  a daisy,  I gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me. 

And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O love,  we  tw’o  shall  go  no  longer 
Ik)  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea  ; 

So  dear  a life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a cry  for  gold  : 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city. 

When  ill  and  w'eary,  alone  and  cold, 

I found,  tho’  crush’d  to  hard  and  dry. 

This  nurseling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me. 

And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by : 

And  I forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  Heaven  and  Earth, 
The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  gray  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance,  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance,  to  charm  a vacant  brain. 
Perchance,  to  dream  you  still  beside  me. 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 


TO  TFIE  REV.  F.  D.  MAURICE. 

Come,  when  no  graver  cares  employ. 
God-father,  come  and  see  your  boy : 

Your  presence  will  be  sun  in  winter. 
Making  the  little  one  leap  for  joy. 

For,  being  of  that  honest  few, 

Who  give  the  Fiend  himself  his  due. 

Should  eighty  thousand  college  councils 
Thunder  “ Anathema,”  friend,  at  you  : 

Should  all  our  churchmen  foam  in  spite 
At  you,  so  careful  of  the  right. 

Yet  one  lay-hearth  would  give  you  wel- 
come 

(Take  it  and  come)  to  the  Isle  of  Wight ; 

Where,  far  from  noise  and  smoke  of  town, 

I watch  the  twilight  falling  brown 
All  round  a careless-order’d  garden 
Close  to  the  ridge  of  a noble  down. 

You  ’ll  have  no  scandal  w^hile  you  dine, 

But  honest  talk  and  wholesome  wine, 

And  only  hear  the  magpie  gossip 
Garrulous  under  a roof  of  pine  : 


WILL.— THE  CHARGE  OF 


For  groves  of  pine  on  either  hand, 

To  break  the  blast  of  winter,  stand ; 

And  further  on,  the  hoary  Channel 
Tumbles  a breaker  on  chalk  and  sand  ; 

Where,  if  below  the  milky  steep 
Some  ship  of  battle  slowly  creep. 

And  on  thro’  zones  of  light  and  shadow 
Glimmer  away  to  the  lonely  deep, 

We  might  discuss  the  Northern  sin 
Which  made  a selfish  war  begin  ; 

Dispute  the  claims,  arrange  the  chances  ; 
Emperor,  Ottoman,  which  shall  win  : 

Or  whether  war’s  avenging  rod 
Shall  lash  all  Europe  into  blood  ; 

Till  you  should  turn  to  dearer  matters. 
Dear  to  the  man  that  is  dear  to  God ; 

How  best  to  help  the  slender  store, 

How  mend  the  dwellings,  of  the  poor ; 

How  gain  in  life,  as  life  advances. 

Valor  and  charity  more  and  more. 

Come,  Maurice,  come  : the  lawn  as  yet 
Is  hoar  with  rime,  or  spongy-wet ; 

But  when  the  wreath  of  March  has  blos- 
som’d. 

Crocus,  anemone,  violet. 

Or  later,  pay  one  visit  here, 

For  those  are  few  we  hold  as  dear; 

Nor  pay  but  one,  but  come  for  many, 
Many  and  many  a happy  year. 

January,  1854. 


WILL. 


O WELL  for  him  whose  will  is  strong  1 
He  suffers,  but  he  will  not  suffer  long ; 

He  suffers,  but  he  cannot  suffer  wrong: 

For  him  nor  moves  the  loud  world’s  random 
mock, 

Nor  all  Calamity’s  hugest  waves  confound,'' 
Who  seems  a promontory  of  rock, 

That,  compass’d  round  with  turbulent  sound. 
In  middle  ocean  meets  the  surging  shock, 
Tempest  buffeted,  citadel-cro wir’d. 

2. 

But  ill  for  him  who,  bettering  not  with  time. 
Corrupts  the  strength  of  heaven-descended 
Will, 

And  ever  weaker  grows  thro’  acted  crime. 
Or  seeming-genial  venial  fault, 

Recurring  and  suggesting  still ! 

He  seems  as  one  whose  footsteps 
Toiling  in  immeasurable  sand. 

And  o’er  a weary,  sultry  land. 

Far  beneath  a blazing  vault. 

Sown  in  a wrinkle  of  the  monstrous  hill, 

The  city  sparkles  like  a grain  of  salt. 


THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.  163 

THE  CHARGE  OF  THE  LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 


Half  a league,  half  a league, 
Half  a league  onward. 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 

Charge  for  the  guns  ! ” he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

2. 

“Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !” 
Was  there  a man  dismay’d.^ 

Not  tho’  the  soldier  knew 
Some  one  had  blunder’d  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 

Theirs  but  to  do  and  die. 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

3- 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 

Cannon  to  left  of  them. 

Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volley’d  and  thunder’d ; 

Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 

4- 

Flash’d  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash’d  as  they  turn’d  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wonder’d  ; 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  thro’  the  line  they  broke  ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel’d  from  the  sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d  and  sunder’d. 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 
Not  the  six  hundred. 

5- 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them 
Volley’d  and  -thunder’d ; 

Storm’d  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro’  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell* 

All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

6. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

O the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder’d. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made  I 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 


164 


ENID, 


IDYLS  OF  THE  KING. 

“ Flos  Regnm  Arthurus.” 

’ JOSEPH  OF  Exeter. 


DEDICATION. 

These  to  His’Memory  — since  he  held  them 
dear, 

Perchance  as  finding  there  unconsciously 
Some  image  of  himself — I dedicate, 

I dedicate,  I consecrate  with  tears  — 

These  Idyls. 

And  indeed  He  seems  to  me 
Scarce  other  than  my  own  ideal  knight, 

“ Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king  ; 
Whose  glory  was,  redressing  human  wrong; 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen’d  to  it ; 
Who  loved  one  only  and  who  clave  to  her — ” 
Her  — over  all  whose  realms  to  their  last  isle. 
Commingled  with  the  gloom  of  imminent  war. 
The  shadow  of  His  loss  moved  like  eclipse, 
Darkening  the  world.  We  have  lost  him  : he 
is  gone  : 

We  know  him  now  : all  narrow  jealousies 
Are  silent : and  we  see  him  as  he  moved. 
How  modest,  kindly,  all  accomplish’d,  wise, 
With  what  sublime  repression  of  himself, 
And  in  what  limits,  and  how  tenderly  ; 

Not  swaying  to  this  faction  or  to  that  ; 

Not  making  his  high  place  the  lawless  perch 
Of  wing’d  ambitions,  nor  a vantage-ground 
For  pleasure  : but  thro’  all  this  tract  of  years 
Wearing  the  white  flower  of  a blameless  life. 
Before  a thousand  peering  littlenesses. 

In  that  fierce  light  which  beats  upon  a throne. 
And  blackens  every  blot ; for  where  is  he, 
Who  dares  foreshadow  for  an  only  son 
A lovelier  life,  a more  unstain’d,  than  his  ? 
Or  how  should  England  dreaming  of  his  sons 
Hope  more  for  these  than  some  inheritance 
Of  such  a life,  a heart,  a mind  as  thine, 

Thou  noble  Father  of  her  Kings  to  be, 
Laborious  for  her  people  and  her  poor  — 
Voice  in  the  rich  dawn  of  an  ampler  day  — 
Far-sighted  summoner  of  War  and  Waste 
To  fruitful  strifes  and  rivalries  of  peace  — 
Sweet  nature  gilded  by  the  gracious  gleam 
Of  letters,  dear  to  Science,  dear  to  Art, 

Dear  to  thy  land  and  ours,  a Prince  indeed. 
Beyond  all  titles,  and  a household  name. 
Hereafter,  thro’  all  times,  Albert  the  Good. 

Break  not,  O woman’s-heart,  but  still  endure  ; 
Break  not,  for  thou  art  Royal,  but  endure. 
Remembering  all  the  beauty  of  that  star 
Which  shone  so  close  beside  Thee,  that  ye 
made 

One  light  together,  but  has  past  and  left 
The  Crown  of  lonely  splendor. 

May  all  love, 

His  love,  unseen  but  felt,  o’ershadow  Thee, 


The  love  of  all  Thy  sons  encompass  Thee, 
The  love  otall  thy  daughters  cherish  Thee, 
The  love  of  all  Thy  people  comfort  Thee, 
Till  God’s  love  set  Thee  at  his  side  again  ! 


ENID. 

The  brave  Geraint,  a kijight  of  Arthur’s 
court, 

A tributary  prince  of  Devon,  one 
Of  that  great  order  of  the  Table  Round, 

Had  wedded  Enid,  Yniol’s  only  child. 

And  loved  her,  as  he  loved  the  light  of 
Heaven. 

And  as  the  light  of  Heaven  varies,  now 
At  sunrise,  now  at  sunset,  now  by  night 
With  moon  and  trembling  stars,  so  loved 
Geraint 

To  make  her  beauty  vary  day  by  day. 

In  crimsons  and  in  purples  and  in  gems. 

And  Enid,  but, to  please  her  husband’s  eye. 
Who  first  had  found  and  loved  her  in  a 
state 

Of  broken  fortunes,  daily  fronted  him 
In  some  fresh  splendor;  and  the  Queen  her- 
self. 

Grateful  to  Prince  Geraint  for  service  done. 
Loved  her,  and  often  with  her  own  white 
hands 

Array’d  and  deck’d  her,  as  the  loveliest. 
Next  after  her  own  self,  in  all  the  court. 

And  Enid  loved  the  Queen,  and  with  true 
heart 

Adored  her,  as  the  stateliest  and  the  best 
And  loveliest  of  all  women  upon  earth. 

And  seeing  them  so  tender  and  so  close. 
Long  in  their  common  love  rejoiced  Geraint. 
But  when  a rumor  rose  about  the  Queen, 
Touching  her  guilty  love  for  Lancelot, 
Though  yet  there  lived  no  proof,  nor  yet  was 
heard 

The  world’s  loud  whisper  breaking  into 
storm. 

Not  less  Geraint  believed  it ; and  there  fell 
A horror  on  him,  lest  his  gentle  wife. 

Thro’  that  great  tenderness  to  Guinevere, 
Had  suffered  or  should  suffer  any  taint 
In  nature  : wherefore  going  to  the  king. 

He  made  thij  pretext,  that  his  princedom  lay 
Close  on  the  borders  of  a territory. 

Wherein  were  bandit  earls,  and  caitiff 
knights. 

Assassins,  and  all  flyers  from  the  hand 
Of  Justice,  and  whatever  loathes  a law  : 

And  therefore,  till  the  king  himself  should 
please 


ENID.  165 


To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  his 
realm, 

He  craved  a fair  permission  to  depart, 

And  there  defend  his  marches;  and  the 
king 

Mused  for  a little  on  his  plea,  but,  last, 
Allowing  it,  the  prince  and  Enid  rode. 

And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them,  to  the 
shores 

Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land  ; 
Where,  thinking,  tliat  if  ever  yet  was  wife 
True  to  her  lord,  mine  shall  be  so  to  me, 

He  compassed  her  with  sweet  observances 
And  worship,  never  leaving  her,  and  grew 
Forgetful  of  his  promise  to  the  king, 
Forgetful  of  the  falcon  and  the  hunt, 
Forgetful  of  the  tilt  and  tournament, 
Forgetful  of  his  glory  and  his  name. 

Forgetful  of  his  princedom  and  its  cares. 

And  this  forgetfulness  was  hateful  to  her. 
And  by  and  by  the'people,  when  they  met 
In  twos  and  threes,  or  fuller  companies. 
Began  to  scoff  and  jeer  and  babble  of  him 
As  of  a prince  whose  manhood  was  all  gone, 
And  molten  down  in  mere  uxoriousness. 

And  this  she  gather’d  from  the  people’s 
eyes  : 

This  too  the  women  who  attired  her  head. 

To  please  her,  dwelling  on  his  boundless 
love. 

Told  Enid,  and  they  saddened  her  the 
more  : 

And  day  by  day  she  thought  to  tell  Geraint, 
But  could  not  out  of  bashful  delicacy ; 

While  he  that  watch’d  her  sadden,  was  the 
more 

Suspicious  that  her  nature  had  a taint. 

At  last,  it  chanced  on  a summer  morn 
(They  sleeping  each  by  other)  the  new  sun 
Beat  through  the  blindless  casement  of  the 
room, 

And  heated  the  strong  warrior  in  his  dreams; 
Who,  moving,  cast  the  coverlet  aside. 

And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his  throat. 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast. 

And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle 
sloped. 

As  slopes  a wild  brook  o’er  a little  stone. 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it. 
And  Enid  woke  and  sat  beside  the  couch. 
Admiring  him,  and  thought  within  herself. 
Was  ever  man  so  grandly  made  as  he? 

Then,  like  a shadow,  past  the  people’s  talk 
And  accusation  of  uxoriousness 
Across  her  mind,  and  bowing  over  him. 

Low  to  her  own  heart  piteously,  she  said  : 

“ O noble  breast  and  all-puissant  arms. 

Am  I the  cause,  I the  poor  cause  that  men 
Reproach  you,  saying  all  your  force  is  gone  ? 
1 am  the  cause  because  I dare  not  speak 
And  tell  him  what  I think  and  what  they 
say. 

And  yet  I hate  that  he  should  linger  here  ; 

1 cannot  love  my  lord  and  not  his  name. 

Far  liever  had  I gird  his  harness  on  him. 
And  ride  with  him  to  battle  and  stand  by. 


And  watch  his  mightful  hand  striking  great 
blows 

At  caitiffs  and  at  wron^ers  of  the  world. 

Far  better  were  I laid  in  the  dark  earth. 

Not  hearing  any  more  his  noble  voice. 

Not  to  be  folded  more  in  these  dear  arms, 
And  darken’d  from  the  high  light  in  his 
eyes. 

Than  that  my  lord  through  me  should  suffer 
shame. 

Am  I so  bold,  and  could  I so  stand  by. 

And  see  my  dear  lord  wounded  in  the  strife. 
Or  may  be  pierced  to  death  before  mine 
eyes. 

And  yet  not  dare  to  tell  him  what  I think, 
And  how  men  slur  him,  saying  all  his  force 
Is  melted  into  mere  effeminacy  ? 

0 me,  I fear  that  I am  no  true  wife.” 

Half  inwardly,  half  audibly  she  spoke. 

And  the  strong  passion  in  her  made  her 
weep 

True  tears  upon  his  broad  and  naked  breast. 
And  these  awoke  him,  and  by  great  mis- 
chance 

He  heard  but  fragments  of  her  later  words. 
And  that  she  fear’d  she  was  not  a true  wife. 
And  then  he  thought,  “In  spite  of  all  my 
care. 

For  all  my  pains,  poor  man,  for  all  my 
pains. 

She  is  not  faithful  to  me,  and  I see  her 
Weeping  for  some  gay  knight  in  Arthur’s 
hall.” 

Then  tho’  he  loved  and  reverenced  her  too 
much 

To  dream  she  could  be  of  foul  act. 

Right  thro’  his  manful  breast  darted  the  pang 
That  makes  a man  in  the  sweet  face  of  her 
Whom  he  loves  most,  lonely  and  miserable. 
At  this  he  hurl’d  his  huge  limbs  out  of  bed. 
And  shook  his  drowsy  squire  awake  and  cried, 
“ My  charger  and  her  palfrey,”  then  to  her, 

“ I will  ride  forth  into  the  wilderness; 

For  tho’  it  seems  my  spurs  are  yet  to  win, 

1 have  not  fall’n  so  low  as  some  would  wish. 
And  you,  put  on  your  worst  and  meanest 

dress 

And*ride  with  me.”  And  Enid  ask’d,  amazed, 
“ If  Enid  errs,  let  Enid  learn  her  fault.” 

But  he,  “ I charge  you,  ask  not,  but  obey.” 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  a faded  silk, 

A faded  mantle  and  a faded  veil. 

And  moving  toward  a cedarn  cabinet, 
Wherein  she  kept  them  folded  reverently 
With  sprigs  of  summer  laid  between  the 
folds. 

She  took  them,  and  array’d  herself  therein, 
Remembering  when  first  he  came  on  her 
Drest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her  in  it. 
And  all  her  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 

And  all  hi»  journey  to  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

For  Arthur  on  the  Whitsuntide  before 
Held  court  at  old  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  on  a day,  he  sitting  high  in  hall. 
Before  him  came  a forester  of  Dean, 

Wet  from  the  woods,  with  notice  of  a hart 


i66  ENID. 


Taller  than  all  his  fellows,  milky -white, 

First  seen  that  day  : these  things  he  told  the 
king. 

Then  the  good  king  gave  order  to  let  blow 
His  horns  for  hunting  on  the  morrow  morn. 
And  when  the  Queen  petition’d  for  his  leave 
To  see  the  hunt,  allow’d  it  easily. 

So  with  the  morning  all  the  court, were  gone. 
But  Guinevere  lay  late  into  the  morn, 

Lost  in  sweet  dreams,  and  dreaming  of  her 
love 

For  Lancelot,  and  forgetful  of  the  hunt ; 

But  rose  at  last,  a single  maiden  with  her, 
Took  horse,  and  forded  Usk,  and  gain’d  the 
wood  ; 

There,  on  a little  knoll  beside  it,  stay’d 
Waiting  to  hear  the  hounds  ; but  heard  in- 
stead 

A sudden  sound  of  hoofs,  for  Prince  Geraint, 
Late  also,  wearing  neither  hunting-dress 
Nor  weapon,  save  a golden-hilted  brand. 
Came  quickly  flashing  thro’  the  shallow 
ford 

Behind  them,  and  so  gallop’d  up  the  knoll. 

A purple  scarf,  at  either  end  whereof 
There  swung  an  apple  of  the  purest  gold. 
Sway’d  round  about  him,  as  he  gallop’d  up 
To  join  them,  glancing  like  a dragon-fly 
In  summer  suit  and  silks  of  holiday. 

Low  bow’d  the  tributary  Prince,  and  she. 
Sweetly  and  statelily,  and  with  all  grace 
Of  womanhood  and  queenhood,  answer’d 
him : 

“Late,  late.  Sir  Prince,”  she  said,  “later 
than  we  ! ” 

“Yea,  noble  Queen,”  he  answer’d,  “and  so 
late 

That  T but  come  like  you  to  see  the  hunt. 

Not  join  it.”  “ Therefore  wait  with  me,”  she 
said  ; 

“ For  on  this  little  knoll,  if  anywhere. 

There  is  good  chance  that  we  shall  hear  the 
hounds ; 

Here  often  they  break  covert  at  our  feet.” 

And  while  they  listen’d  for  the  distant  hunt. 
And  chiefly  for  the  baying  of  Cavall, 

King  Arthur’s  hound  of  deepest  mouth,  there 
rode 

Full  slowly  by  a knight,  lady,  and  dwarf; 
Whereof  the  dwarf  lagg’d  latest,  and  the 
knight 

Had  visor  up,  and  show’d  a youthful  face. 
Imperious,  and  of  haughtiest  lineaments. 

And  Guinevere,  not  mindful  of  his  face 
In  the  king’s  hall,  desired  his  name,  and  sent 
Her  maiden  to  demand  it  of  the  dwarf ; 

Who  being  vicious,  old,  and  irritable. 

And  doubling  all  his  master’s  vice  of  pride. 
Made  answer  sharply  that  she  should  not 
know. 

“ Then  will  I ask  it  of  himself,”  she  said. 

“ Nay,  by  my  faith,  thou  shalt  not,”  cried 
the  dwarf ; 

“ Thou  art  not  worthy  ev’n  to  speak  of 
him  ” ; 

And  when  she  put  her  horse  toward  the  j 
knight,  ' 


Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  return’d 
Indignant  to  the  Queen  ; at  which  Geraint 
Exclaiming,  “Surely  I will  learn  the  name,” 
Made  sharply  to  the  dwarf,  and  ask’d  it  of 
him. 

Who  answer’d  as  before ; and  w'hen  the  Prince 
Had  put  his  horse  in  motion  toward  the 
knight. 

Struck  at  him  with  his  whip,  and  cut  his 
cheek. 

The  Prince’s  blood  spirted  upon  the  scarf, 
Dyeing  it ; and  his  quick,  instinctive  hand 
Caught  at  the  hilt,  as  to  abolish  him  : 

But  he,  from  his  exceeding  manfulness 
A»d  pure  nobility  of  temperament, 

Wroth  to  be  wroth  at  such  a worm,  refrain’d 
From  ev’n  a word,  and  so  returning,  said : 

“ I will  avenge  this  insult,  noble  Queen, 
Done  in  your  maiden’s  person  to  yourself ; 
And  I w'ill  track  this  verrfiin  to  their  earths  ; 
For  tho’  1 ride  unarm’d,  I do  not  doubt 
To  find,  at  some  place  I shall  come  at,  arms 
On  loan,  or  else  for  pledge  ; and,  being  found. 
Then  will  I fight  him,  and  will  break  his 
pride, 

And  on  the  third  day  will  again  be  here. 

So  that  I be  not  fall’n  in  fight.  Farewell.” 

“Farewell,  fair  Prince,”  answ'er’d  the 
stately  Queen. 

“ Be  prosperous  in  this  journey,  as  in  all ; 
And  may  you  light  on  all  things  that  you  love, 
And  live  to  wed  with  her  whom  first  you 
love  : 

But  ere  you  w'ed  with  any,  bring  your  bride, 
And  I,  w'ere  she  the  daughter  of  a king. 

Yea,  tho’  she  were  a beggar  from  the  hedge. 
Will  clothe  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun.” 

And  Prince  Geraint,  now  thinking  that  he 
heard 

The  noble  hart  at  bay,  now  the  far  horn, 

A little  vext  at  losing  of  the  hunt, 

A little  at  the  vile  occasion,  rode. 

By  ups  and  dowms,  thro’  many  a grassy  glade 
And  valle5%  with  fixt  eye,  following  the  three. 
At  last  they  issued  from  the  world  of  wood. 
And  climb’d  upon  a fair  and  even  ridge* 

And  show’d  themselves  against  the  sky,  and 
sank. 

And  thither  came  Geraint,  and  underneath 
Beheld  the  long  street  of  a little  town 
In  a long  valley,  on  one  side  of  which. 

White  from  the  mason’s  hand,  a fortress  rose  : 
And  on  one  side  a castle  in  decay. 

Beyond  a bridge  that  spann’d  a dry  ravine : 
And  out  of  town  and  valley  came  a noise 
As  of  a broad  brook  o’er  a shingly  bed 
Brawling,  or  like  a clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night. 

And  onward  to  the  fortress  rode  the  three. 
And  enter’d,  and  were  lost  behind  the  walls. 
“So,”  thought  Geraint,  “I  have  track’d 
him  to  his  earth.” 

And  down  the  long  street,  riding  wearily, 
Found  every  hostel  full,  and  everywhere 


I 


r 


¥ 


“ Beheld  the  long  street  of  a little  town 
In  a long  valley.” 


ENID. 


Was  hammer  laid  to  hoof,  and  the  hot  hiss 
And  bustling  whistle  of  the  youth  who  scour’d 
His  master’s  armor;  and  of  such  a one 
He  ask’d,  “ What  means  the  tUmulf  in  the 
town  ? ” 

Who  told  him,  scouring  still,  “ The  sparrow- 
hawk  ! ” 

Then  riding  close  behind  an  ancient  churl, 
Who,  smitten  by  the  dusty  sloping  beam. 
Went  sweating  underneath  a sack  of  corn. 
Ask’d  yet  once  more  what  meant  the  hubbub 
here  ? 

Who  answer’d  gruffly,  “Ugh  ! the  sparrow- 
hawk.” 

Then,  riding  further  past  an  armorer’s. 

Who,  with  back  turn’d,  and  bow’d  above  his 
work, 

Sat  riveting  a helmet  on  his  knee, 

He  put  the  selfsame  query,  but  the  man 
Not  turning  round,  nor  looking  at  him,  said  : 

“ Friend,  he  that  labors  for  the  sparrow-hawk 
Has  little  time  for  idle  questioners.” 

Whereat  Geraint  flash’d  into  sudden  spleen  : 

“ A thousand  pips  eat  up  your  sparrow-hawk  ! 
Tits,  wrens,  and  all  wing’d  nothings  peck 
him  dead ! 

Ye  think  the  rustic  cackle  of  your  bourg 
The  murmur  of  the  world  ! What  is  it  to  me  ? 
O wretched  set  of  sparrows,  one  and  all,  j 
Who  pipe  of  nothing  but  of  sparrow-hawks  ! | 
Speak,  if  you  be  not  like  the  rest,  hawk- 
mad. 

Where  can  I get  me  harborage  for  the  night? 
And  arms,  arms,  arms  to  fight  my  enemy  ? 
Speak  ! ” 

At  this  the  armorer  turning  all  amazed 
And  seeing  one  so  gay  in  purple  silks. 

Came  forward  with  the  helmet  yet  in  hand 
And  answer’d,  “ Pardon  me,  O stranger 
knight ; 

We  hold  a tourney  here  to-morrow  mom. 

And  there  is  scantly  time  for  half  the  work. 
Arms?  truth!  I know  not:  all  are  wanted 
here. 

Harborage  ? truth,  good  truth,  I know  not, 
save, 

It  may  be,  at  Earl  Yniol’s,  o’er  the  bridge 
Yonder.”  He  spoke  and  fell  to  work  again. 

Then  rode  Geraint,  a little  spleenful  yet, 
Across  the  bridge  that  spann’d  the  dry  ravine. 
There  musing  sat  the  hoary-headed  Earl, 

(His  dress  a suit  of  fray’d  magnificence. 

Once  fit  for  feasts  of  ceremony)  and  said : 
“Whither,  fair  son?”  to  whom  Geraint  re- 
plied, 

“ O friend,  I seek  a harborage  for  the  night.” 
Then  Yniol,  “ Enter  therefore  and  partake 
The  slender  entertainment  of  a house 
Once  nch,  now  poor,  but  ever  open-door’d.” 
“Thanks,  venerable  friend,  replied  Geraint; 

“ So  that  you  do  not  serve  me  sparrow-hawks 
For  supper,  I will  enter,  I will  eat 
With  all  the  passion  of  a twelve  hours’  fast.” 
Then  sigh’d  and  smiled  the  hoary-headed 
Earl, 

And  answer’d,  “ Graver  cause  than  yours  is 
mine 


167 

To  curse  this  hedgerow  thief,  the  sparrow- 
hawk  : 

But  in,  go  in  ; for,  save  yourself  desire  it. 
We  will  not  touch  upon  nim  ev’n  in  jest.” 

Then  rode  Geraint  into  the  castle  court, 
His  charger  trampling  many  a prickly  star 
Of  sprouted  thistle  on  the  broken  stones. 

He  look’d  and  saw  that  all  was  ruinous. 
Here  stood  a shatter’d  archway  plumed  with 
fern  ; 

And  here  had  fall’n  a great  part  of  a tower. 
Whole,  like  a crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a crag  was  gay  witn  wilding  flowers; 
And  high  above  a piece  of  turret  stair. 

Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent, 
wound 

Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy-fibred  arms. 
And  suck’d  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and 
look’d 

A knot,  beneath,  of  snakes,  aloft,  a grove. 

And  while  he  waited  in  the  castle  court, 
The  voice  of  Enid,  Yniol’s  daughter,  rang 
Clear  thro’  the  open  casement  of  the  Hall, 
Singing  : and  as  the  sweet  voice  of  a bird. 
Heard  by  the  lander  in  a lonely  isle. 

Moves  him  to  think  what  kind  of  bird  it  is 
That  sings  so  delicately  clear,  and  make 
Conjecture  of  the  plumage  and  the  form  ; 

So  the  sweet  voice  of  Enid  moved  Geraint ; 
And  made  him  like  a man  abroad  at  morn 
When  first  the  liquid  note  beloved  of  men 
Comes  flying  over  many  a windy  wave 
To  Britain,  and  in  April  suddenly 
Breaks  from  a coppice  gemm’d  with  green 
and  red. 

And  he  suspends  his  converse  with  a friend, 
Or  it  may  be  the  labor  of  his  hands. 

To  think  or  say,  “ there  is  the  nightingale  ” ; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  thought  and 
said, 

“ Here,  by  God’s  grace,  is  the  one  voice  for 
me.” 

It  chanced  the  song  that  Enid  sang  was 
one 

Of  Fortune  and  her  wheel,  and  Enid  sang  : 

“ Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  and  low- 
er the  proud  ; 

Turn  thy  wild  wheel  thro’  sunshine,  storm, 
and  cloud  ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate. 

“ Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel  with  smile 
or  frown  ; 

With  that  wild  wheel  we  go  not  up  or  down  ; 
Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great. 

“ Smile  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  many 
lands : 

Frown  and  we  smile,  the  lords  of  our  own 
hands  ; 

For  man  is  man  and  master  of  his  fate. 


ENID. 


1 68 

“ Turn,  turn  thy  wheel  above  the  staring 
crowd  ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thou  are  shadows  in  the 
cloud  ; 

Thy  wheel  and  thee  we  neither  love  nor  hate.” 

“ Hark,  by  the  bird’s  song  you  may  learn 
the  n«st,” 

Said  Yniol ; “ Enter  quickly.”  Entering 
then, 

Right  o’er  a mount  of  newly-fallen  stones, 
The  dusty-rafter’d  many-cobweb’d  Hall, 

He  found  an  ancient  dame  in  dim  brocade  ; 
And  near  her,  like  a blossom  vermeil-white, 
That  lightly  breaks  a faded  flower-sheath, 
Moved  the  fair  Enid,  all  in  faded  silk, 

Her  daughter.  In  a moment  thought  Geraint, 
“ Here  by  God’s  rood  is  the  one  maid  for 
me.”  ' 

But  none  spake  word  except  the  hoary  Earl : 
” Enid,  the  good  knight’s  horse  stands  in  the 
court ; 

Take  him  to  stall,  and  give  him  corn,  and 
then 

Go  to  the  town  and  buy  us  flesh  and  wine  ; 
And  we  vyill  make  us  merry  as  we  may. 

Our  hoard  is  little,  but  our  hearts  are  great.” 

He  spake  : the  Prince,  as  Enid  past  him 
fain 

To  follow,  strode  a stride,  but  Yniol  caught 
His  purple  scarf,  and  held,  and  said  “For- 
bear ! 

Rest ! the  good  house,  tho’  ruin’d,  O my 
Son, 

Endures  not  that  her  guest  should  serve  him- 
self.” 

And  reverencing  the  custom  of  the  house 
Geraint,  from  utter  courtesy,  forbore. 

So  Enid  took  his  charger  to  the  stall ; 

And  after  went  her  way  across  the  bridge. 
And  reach’d  the  town,  and  while  the  Prince 
and  Earl 

Yet  spoke  together,  came  again  with  one, 

A youth,  that  following  with  a costrel  bore 
The  means  of  goodly  welcome,  flesh  and 
wine. 

And  Enid  brought  sweet  cakes  to  make  them 
^ cheer. 

And  in  her  veil  enfolded,  manchet  bread. 
And  then,  because  their  hall  must  also  serve 
For  kitchen,  boil’d  the  flesh,  and  spread  the 
board. 

And  stood  behind,  and  waited  on  the  three. 
And  seeing  her  so  sweet  and  serviceable, 
Geraint  had  longing  in  him  evermore 
To  stoop  and  kiss  the  tender  little  thumb, 
I'hat  crost  the  trencher  as  she  laid  it  down  : 
But  after  all  had  eaten,  then  Geraint, 

F or  now  the  wine  made  summer  in  his  veins, 
Let  his  eye  rove  in  following,  or  rest 
On  Enid  at  her  lowly  hand  maid-work. 

Now  here,  now  there,  about  the  dusky  hall  : 
Then  suddenly  addrest  the  hoary  Earl. 

“Fair  Host  and  Earl,  I pray  your  courtesy : 


This  sparrow-hawk,  what  is  he,  tell  me  of 
him. 

His  name?  but  no,  good  faith,  I will  not 
have  it : 

For  if  he  be  the  knight  whom  late  I saw 
Ride  into  that  new  foi  tress  by  your  town. 
White  from  the  mason’s  hand,  then  have  I 
sworn 

From  his  own  lips  to  have  it — lam  Geraint 
Of  Devon  — for  this  morning  when  the 
Queen 

Sent  her  own  maiden  to  demand  the  name, 
H is  dwarf,  a vicious  under-shapen  thing. 
Struck  at  her  with  his  whip,  and  she  return’d 
Indignant  to  the  Queen  ; and  then  I swore 
That  I would  track  this  caitiff  to  his  hold, 
And  fight  and  break  his  pride,  and  have  it  of 
him. 

And  all  unarm’d  I rode,  and  thought  to  find 
Arms  in  your  town,  where  all  the  men  are 
mad  ; 

They  take  the  rustic  murmur  of  their  bourg 
For  the  great  wave  that  echoes  round  the 
world  ; 

They  would  not  hear  me  speak  : but  if  you 
know 

Where  I can  light  on  arms,  or  if  yourself 
Should  have  them,  tell  me,  seeing  I have 
sworn 

That  I will  break  his  pride  and  learn  his  name. 
Avenging  this  great  insult  done  the  Queen.” 

Then  cried  Earl  Yniol ; “Art  thou  he  in- 
deed, 

Geraint,  a name  far-sounded  among  men 
For  noble  deeds?  and  truly  I,  when  first 
I saw  you  moving  by  me  on  the  bridge. 

Felt  you  were  somewhat,  yea  and  by  your 
state 

And  presence  might  have  guess’d  you  one  of 
those 

That  eat  in  Arthur’s  hall  at  Camelot. 

Nor  speak  I now  from  foolish  flattery  ; 

For  this  dear  child  hath  often  heard  me  praise 
Your  feats  of  arms,  and  often  when  I paused 
Hath  ask’d  again,  and  ever  loved  to  hear ; 

So  grateful  is  the  noise  of  noble  deeds 
To  noble  hearts  who  see  but  acts  of  wrong  : 

0 never  yet  had  woman  such  a pair 

Of  suitors  as  this  maiden  ; first  Limours, 

A creature  w'holly  given  to  brawls  and  wine. 
Drunk  even  when  he  woo’d  ; and  be  he 
dead 

1 know  not,  but  he  passed  to  the  wild  land. 
The  second  was  your  foe,  the  sparrow-hawk. 
My  curse,  my  nephew, — I will  not  let  his 

name 

SHp  from  my  lips  if  I can  help  it, — he. 

When  I that  knew  him  fierce  and  turbulent 
Refused  her  to  him,  then  his  pride  awoke  ; 
And  since  the  proud  man  often  is  the  mean. 
He  sowed  a slander  in  the  cornmon  ear. 
Affirming  that  his  father  left  him  gold, 

And  in  my  charge,  which  was  not  render’d 
to  him  ; 

Bribed  with  large  promises  the  men  who 
served 

About  my  person,  the  more  easily 


ENID, 


Because  my  means  were  somewhat  broken 
into 

Thro’  open  doors  and  hospitality  ; 

Raised  my  own  town  against  me  in  the  night 
Before  my  Enid’s  birthday,  sack’d  my  house; 
From  mine  own  earldom  foully  ousted  me  ; 
Built  that  new  fort  to  overawe  my  friends, 
For  truly  there  are  those  who  love  me  yet ; 
And  keeps  me  in  this  ruinous  castle  here, 
Where  doubtless  he  would  put  me  soon  to 
death, 

But  that  his  pride  too  much  despises  me : 
And  I myself  sometimes  despise  myself: 

For  I have  let  men  be,  and  have  tlftir  way ; 
And  much  too  gentle,  have  not  used  my  power; 
Nor  know  I whether  I be  very  base 
Or  very  manful,  whether  very  wise 
Or  very  foolish  ; only  this  I know. 

That  whatsoever  evil  happen  to  me, 

I seem  to  suffer  nothing  heart  or  limb, 

But  can  endure  it  all  most  patiently.” 

“ Well  said,  true  heart,”  replied  Geraint, 
“ but  arms : 

That  if,  as  1 suppose,  your  nephew  fights 
In  next  day’s  tourney  I may  break  his  pride.” 

And  Yniol  answer’d:  “Arms,indeed,but  old 
And  rusty,  old  and  rusty.  Prince  Geraint, 

Are  mine,  and  therefore  at  your  asking,  yours. 
But  in  this  tournament  can  no  man  tilt. 
Except  the  lady  he  loves  best  be  there. 

Two  forks  are  fixt  into  the  meadow  ground. 
And  over  these  is  laid  a silver  wand. 

And  over  that  is  placed  the  sparrow-hawk. 
The  prize  of  beauty  for  the  fairest  there. 

And  this,  what  knight  soever  be  in  field 
Lays  claim  to  for  the  lady  at  his  side. 

And  tilts  with  my  good  nephew  thereupon. 
Who  being  apt  at  arms  and  big  of  bone 
Has  ever  won  it  for  the  lady  with  him, 

And  toppling  over  all  antagonism 
Has  earn’d  himself  the  name  of  sparrow- 
hawk. 

But  you,  that  have  no  lady,  cannot  fight.” 

To  whom  Geraint  with  eyes  all  bright  re- 
plied. 

Leaning  a little  toward  him,  “ Your  leave  ! 
Let  me  lay  lance  in  rest,  O noble  host, 

For  this  dear  child,  because  I never  saw, 
Tho’  having  seen  all  beauties  of  our  time. 
Nor  can  see  elsewhere,  anything  so  fair. 

And  if  I fall  her  name  will  yet  remain 
Untarnish’d  as  before  ; but  if  I live. 

So  aid  me  Heaven  when  at  mine  uttermost, 
As  I will  make  her  truly  my  true  wife.” 

Then,  howsoever  patient,  Yniol’s  heart 
Danced  in  his  bosom,  seeing  better  days. 
And  looking  round  he  saw  not  Enid  there, 
(Who  hearing  her  own  name  had  slipt  away) 
But  that  old  dame,  to  whom  fuil  tenderly 
And  fondling  all  her  hand  in  bis  he  said, 

‘‘  Mother,  a maiden  is  a tender  thing, 

And  best  by  her  that  bore  her  understood. 
Go  thou  to  rest,  but  ere  thou  go  to  rest 
Tell  her,  and  prove  her  heart  toward  the 
Prince.” 


169 

So  spake  the  kindly-hearted  Earl,  and  she 
With  frequent  smile  and  nod  departing 
found, 

Half  disarray’d  as  to  her  rest,  the  girl  ; 
Whom  first  she  kiss’d  on  either  cheek,  and 
then 

On  either  shining  shoulder  laid  a hand. 

And  kept  her  off  and  gazed  upon  her  face. 
And  told  her  all  their  converse  in  the  hall. 
Proving  her  heart  ; but  never  light  and  shade 
Coursed  one  another  more  on  open  ground 
Beneath  a troubled  heaven,  than  red  and 
pale 

Across  the  face  of  Enid  hearing  her  ; 

Whilst  slowly  falling  as  a scale  that  falls. 
When  weight  is  added  only  grain  by  grain. 
Sank  her  sweet  head  upon  her  gentle  breast ; 
Nor  did  she  lift  an  e^e  nor  speak  a word. 
Rapt  in  the  fear  and  in  the  wonder  of  it ; 

So  moving  without  answer  to  her  rest 
She  found  no  rest,  and  ever  fail’d  to  draw 
The  quiet  night  into  her  blood,  but  lay 
Contemplating  her  own  unworthiness  ; 

And  when  the  pale  and  bloodless  east  began 
To  quicken  to  the  sun,  arose,  and  raised 
Her  mother  too,  and  hand  in  hand  they 
moved 

Down  to  the  meadow  where  the  jousts  were 
held. 

And  wailed  there  for  Yniol  and  Geraint. 

And  thither  came  the  twain,  and  when 
Geraint 

Beheld  her  first  in  field,  awaiting  him. 

He  felt,  were  she  the  prize  of  bodily  force. 
Himself  beyond  the  rest  pushing  could  move 
The  chair  of  Idris.  Yniol’s  rusted  arms 
Were  on  his  princely  person,  but  thro’  these 
Princelike  his  bearing  shone  ; and  errant 
knights 

And  ladies  came,  and  by  and  by  the  town 
Flow’d  in,  and  settling  circled  all  the  lists. 
And  there  they  fixt  the  forks  into  the  ground. 
And  over  these  they  placed  a silver  wand. 
And  over  that  a golden  sparrow-hawk. 

Then  Yniol’s  nephew,  after  trumpet  blown. 
Spake  to  the  lady  with  him  and  proclaim’d, 

“ Advance  and  take  as  fairest  of  the  fair. 

For  I these  two  years  past  have  won  it  for 
thee, 

The  prize  of  beauty.”  Loudly  spake  the 
Prince, 

‘‘Forbear:  there  is  a worthier,”  and  the 
knight 

With  some  surprise  and  thrice  as  much  dis- 
dain 

Turn’d,  and  beheld  the  four,  and  all  his  face 
Glow’d  like  the  heart  of  a great  fire  at  Yule, 
So  burnt  he  was  with  passion,  crying  out, 

“ Do  battle  for  it  then,”  no  more  ; and  thrice 
They  clash’d  together,  and  thrice  they  brake 
their  spears. 

Then  each,  dishorsed  and  drawing,  lash’d  at 
each 

So  often,  and  with  such  blows,  that  all  the 
crowd 

Wonder’d,  and  now  and  then  from  distant 
walls 


170  ENID. 


There  came  a clapping  as  of  phantom  hands. 
So  twice  they  fought,  and  twice  they  breathed, 
and  still 

The  dew  of  their  great  labor,  and  the  blood 
Of  their  strong  bodies,  flowing,  drain’d  their 
force. 

But  either’s  force  was  match’d  till  Yniol’s  cry, 
“ Remember  that  great  insult  done  the 
Queen,” 

Increased  Geraint’s,  who  heaved  his  blade 
aloft, 

And  crack’d  the  helmet  thro’,  and  bit  the 
bone, 

And  fell’d  him,  and  set  foot  upon  his  breast. 
And  said,  “Thy  name?”  To  whom  the 
fallen  man 

Made  answer,  groaning,  “ Edyrn,  son  of 
Nudd  ! 

Ashamed  am  I that  I should  tell  it  thee. 

My  pride  is  broken  : men  have  seen  my  fall.” 
“ Then,  Edyrn,  son  of  Nudd,”  replied  Ge- 
raint, 

“ These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  else 
thou  diest. 

First,  thou  thyself,  thy  lady  and  thy  dwarf, 
Shalt  ride  to  Arthur’s  court,  and  being  there. 
Crave  pardon  for  that  insult  done  the  Queen, 
And  shalt  abide  her  judgment  on  it ; next, 
Thou  shalt  give  back  their  earldom  to  thy  kin. 
These  two  things  shalt  thou  do,  or  thou  shalt 
die.” 

And  Edyrn  answer’d,  “ These  things  will  I 
do. 

For  I have  never  yet  been  overthrown. 

And  thou  hast  overthrown  me,  and  my  pride 
Is  broken  down,  for  Enid  sees  my  fall ! ” 
And  rising  up,  he  rode  to  Arthur’s  court. 

And  there  the  Queen  forgave  him  easily. 
And  being  young,  he  changed  himself,  and 
grew 

To  hate  the  sin  that  seem’d  so  like  his  own, 
Of  Modred,  Arthur’s  nephew,  and  fell  atlast 
In  the  great  battle  fighting  for  the  king. 

But  when  the  third  day  from  the  hunting- 
morn 

Made  a low  splendor  in  the  world,  and  wings 
Moved  in  her  ivy,  Enid,  for  she  lay 
With  her  fair  head  in  the  dim-yellow  light. 
Among  the  dancing  shadows  of  the  birds. 
Woke  and  bethought  her  of  her  promise  given 
No  later  than  last  eve  to  Prince  Geraint  — 
So  bent  he  seem’d  on  going  the  third  day. 
He  would  not  leave  her,  till  her  promise 
given  — 

To  ride  with  him  this  morning  to  the  court, 
And  there  be  made  known  to  the  stately 
Queen, 

And  there  be  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 

At  this  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  dress, 

And  thought  it  never  yet  had  look’d  so  mean. 
For  as  a leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem’d 
The  dress  that  flow  she  look’d  on  to  the  dress 
She  look’d  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint. 

And  still  .she  look’d,  and  still  the  terror  grew 
Of  that  strange  bright  and  dreadful  thing,  a 
court, 


All  staring  at  her  in  her  faded  silk  : 

And  softly  to  her  own  sweet  heart  she  said : 

“ This  noble  Prince  who  won  our  earldom 
back. 

So  splendid  in  his  acts  and  his  attire. 

Sweet  heaven  ! how  much  I shall  discredit 
him  ! 

Would  he  could  tarry  with  us  here  awhile  ! 
But  being  so  beholden  to  the  Prince 
It  were  but  little  grace  in  any  of  us. 

Bent  as  he  seem’d  on  going  this  third  day. 
To  seek  a second  favor  at  his  hands. 

Yet  if  hetould  but  tarry  a day  or  two. 
Myself  would  work  eye  dim,  and  finger  lame. 
Far  liefer  than  so  much  discredit  him.” 

And  Enid  fell  in  longing  for  a dress 
All  branch’d  and  flower’d  with  gold,  a costly 
gift 

Of  her  good  mother,  given  her  on  the  night 
Before  her  birthday,  three  sad  years  ago. 
That  night  of  fire,  when  Edyrn  sack’d  their 
house. 

And  scatter’d  all  they  had  to  all  the  winds : 
P'or  while  the  mother  show’d  it,  and  the 
two 

Were  turning  and  admiring  it,  the  work 
To  both  appear’d  so  costly,  rose  a cry 
That  Edvrn’s  men  were  on  them,  and  they 
fled 

With  little  save  the  jewels  they  had  on. 
Which  being  sold  and  sold  had  bought  them 
bread  : 

And  Edyrn’s  men  had  caught  them  in  their 
flight, 

And  placed  them  in  this  ruin  ; and  she  wish’d 
The  Prince  had  found  her  in  her  ancient 
home  ; 

Then  let  her  fancy  flit  across  the  past. 

And  roam  the  goodly  places  that  she  knew  ; 
And  last  bethought  her  how  she  used  to 
watch. 

Near  that  old  home,  a pool  of  golden  carp  ; 
And  one  was  patch’d  and  blurr’d  and  lustre- 
less 

Among  his  burnish’d  brethren  of  the  pool; 
And  half  asleep  she  made  comparison 
Of  that  and  these  to  her  own  faded  self 
And  the  gay  court,  and  fell  asleep  again  ; 
And  dreamt  herself  was  such  a faded  form 
Among  her  burnish’d  sisters  of  the  pool ; 

But  this  was  in  the  garden  of  a king  ; 

And  tho’  she  lay  dark  in  the  pool,  she  knew 
That  all  was  bright  ; that  all  about  were  birds 
Of  sunny  plume  in  gilded  trellis-work  ; 

That  all  the  turf  was  rich  in  plots  that  look’d 
Each  like  a garnet  or  a turkis  in  it ; 

And  lords  and  ladles  of  the  high  court  went 
In  silver  tissue  talking!  things  of  state  ; 

And  children  of  the  king  in  cloth  of  gold 
Glanced  at  the  doors  or  gambol’d  down  the 
walks ; 

And  while  she  thought  “they  will  not  see 
me,”  came 

A stately  queen  whose  name  was  Guinevere, 
And  all  the  children  in  their  cloth  of  gold 
Ran  to  her,  crying,  “If  we  have  fish  at  all 


ENID. 


Let  them  be  gold : and  charge  the  gardeners 
now 

To  pick  tlie  faded  creature  from  the  pool, 
And  cast  it  on  the  inixen  that  it  die.” 

And  thercwiihal  one  came  and  seized  on  her, 
And  Enid  started  waking,  with  her  heart 
All  overshadow’d  by  the  foolish  dream, 

And  lo  ! it  was  her  mother  grasping  her 
To  get  her  well  awake  ; and  in  her  hand 
A suit  of  bright  apparel,  which  she  laid 
Flat  on  the  couch,  and  spoke  exultingly  : 


“ See  here,  my  child,  how  fresh  the  colors 
look, 

How  fast  they  hold,  like  colors  of  a shell 
That  keeps  the  wear  and  polish  of  the  wave. 
Why  not?  it  never  yet  was  worn,  I trow  ; 
Look  on  it,  child,  and  tell  me  if  you  know 
it.” 

And  Enid  look’d,  but  all  confused  at  first. 
Could  scarce  divide  it  from  her  foolish  dream, 
Then  suddenly  she  knew  it  and  rejoiced, 

And  answer’d,  “ Yea,  I know  it ; your  good 
c,  sift. 

So  sadly  lost  on  that  unhappy  night ; 

Your  own  good  gift  I ” “ Yea,  surely,”  said 

the  dame. 

And  gladly  given  again  this  happy  morn. 
For  when  the  jousts  were  ended  yesterday. 
Went  Yniol  thro’  the  town,  and  everywhere 
He  found  the  sack  and  plunder  of  our  house 
All  scatter’d  thro’  the  houses  of  the  town  : 
And  gave  command  that  all  which  once  was 
ours. 

Should  now  be  ours  again  : and  yester-eve. 
While  you  were  talking  sweetly  with  your 
Prince, 

Came  one  with  this  and  laid  it  in  my  hand. 
For  love  or  fear,  or  seeking  favor  of  us, 
Because  we  have  our  earldom  back  again. 
And  yester-eve  I would  not  tell  you  of  it. 

But  kept  it  for  a sweet  surprise  at  morn. 

Yea,  truly  is  it  not  a sweet  surprise? 

For  I myself  unwillingly  have  worn 
My  faded  suit,  as  you,  my  child,  have  yours. 
And  howsoever  patient,  Yniol  his. 

Ah,  dear,  he  took  me  from  a goodly  house. 
With  store  of  rich  apparel,  sumptuous  fare. 
And  page,  and  maid,  and  squire,  and  senes- 
chal. 

And  pastime,  both  of  hawk  and  hound,  and 
all 

That  appertains  to  noble  maintenance. 

Yea,  and  he  brought  me  to  a goodly  house  ; 
But  since  our  fortune  slipt  from  sun  to  shade. 
And  all  thro’  that  young  traitor,  cruel  need 
Constrain’d  us,  but  a better  time  has  come  ; 
So  clothe  yourself  in  this,  that  better  fits 
Our  mended  fortunes  and  a Prince’s  bride  ; 
For  tho’  you  won  the  prize  of  fairest  fair. 

And  tho’  I heard  him  call  you  fairest  fair. 

Let  never  maiden  think,  however  fair. 

She  is  not  fairer  in  new  clothes  than  old. 

And  should  some  great  court-lady  say,  the 
Prince 

Hath  pick’d  a ragged-robin  from  the  hedge. 
And  like  a madman  brought  her  to  the  court. 


171 

Then  were  you  shamed,  and  worse,  might 
shame  the  Prince 

To  whom  we  are  beholden  ; but  I know. 
When  my  dear  child  is  set  forth  at  her  best, 
That  neither  court  nor  country,  tho’  they 
sought 

Thro’  all  the  provinces  like  those  of  old 
That  lighted  on  Queen  Esther,  has  her 
match.” 

Here  ceased  the  kindly  mother  out  of 
breath  ; 

And  Enid  listen’d  brightening  as  she  lay  ; 
Then,  as  the  white  and  glittering  star  of 
morn 

Parts  from  a bank  of  snow,  and  by  and  by 
Slips  into  golden  cloud,  the  maiden  rose. 
And  left  her  maiden  couch,  and  robed  her- 
self. 

Help’d  by  the  mother’s  careful  hand  and 
eye. 

Without  a mirror,  in  the  gorgeous  gown  : 
Who,  after,  turn’d  her  daughter  round,  and 
said. 

She  never  yet  had  seen  her  half  so  fair  ; 

And  call’d  her  like  that  maiden  in  the  tale. 
Whom  Gwydion  made  by  glamour  out  of 
flowers. 

And  sweeter  than  the  bride  of  Cassivelaun, 
Flur,  for  whose  love  the  Roman  Caesar  first 
Invaded  Britain,  “but  we  beat  him  back. 

As  this  great  Prince  invaded  us,  and  we, 

Not  beat  him  back,  but  welcomed  him  with 
joy. 

And  I can  scarcely  ride  with  you  to  court, 

For  old  am  I,  and  rough  the  ways  and  wild  : 
But  Yniol  goes,  and  I full  oft  shall  dream 
I see  my  princess  as  I see  her  now, 

Cloth’d  with  my  gift,  and  gay  among  the 
gay.” 

But  whilst  the  women  thus  rejoiced,  Ge- 
raint 

Woke  where  he  slept  in  the  high  hall,  and 
call’d 

For  Enid,  and  when  Yniol  made  report 
Of  that  good  mother  making  Enid  gay 
In  such  apparel  as  might  well  beseem 
His  princess,  or  indeed  the  stately  queen. 

He  answer’d,  “ Earl,  entreat  her  by  my  love. 
Albeit  I give  no  reason  but  my  wish. 

That  she  ride  with  me  in  her  faded  silk.” 
Yniol  with  that  hard  message  went  ; it  fell. 
Like  flaws  in  summer  laying  lusty  corn  : 

For  Enid,  all  abash’d,  .she  knew  not  why. 
Dared  not  to  glance  at  her  good  mother’s 
face. 

But  silently,  in  all  obedience. 

Her  mother  silent  too,  nor  helping  her. 

Laid  from  her  limbs  the  costly-broider’d 
gift, 

And  robed  them  in  her  ancient  suit  again. 

And  so  descended.  Never  man  rejoiced 
More  than  Geraint  to  greet  her  thus  attired : 
And  glancing  all  at  once  as  keenly  at  her. 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s  toil. 

Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall, 
But  rested  with  her  sweet  face  satisfied ; 


ENID. 


172 

Then  seeing  cloud  upon  the  mother’s  brow, 
Ker  by  both  hands  he  caught,  and  sweetly 
said  : 

“ O my  new  mother,  be  not  wroth  or 
grieved 

At  your  new  son,  for  my  petition  to  her. 
When  late  I left  Caerleon,  our  great  Queen, 
In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so 
sweet. 

Made  promise  that  whatever  bride  I brought. 
Herself  would  clothe  her  like  the  sun  in 
Heaven. 

Thereafter,  when  I reach’d  this  ruin’d  hold, 
Beholding  one  so  bright  in  dark  estate, 

I vow’d  that  could  1 gain  her,  our  kind 
Queen, 

No  hand  but  hers,  should  make  your  Enid 
burst 

Sunlike  from  cloud  — and  likewise  thought 
perhaps. 

That  service  done  so  graciously  would  bind 
The  two  together  ; for  I wish  the  two 
To  love  each  other  : how  should  Enid  find 
A nobler  friend?  Another  thought  I had; 

I came  among  you  here  so  suddenly. 

That  tho’  her  gentle  presence  at  the  lists 
Might  well  have  served  for  proof  that  I was 
loved, 

I doubted  whether  filial  tenderness, 

Or  easy  nature,  did  not  let  itself 
Be  moulded  by  your  wishes  for  her  weal ; 

Or  whether  some  false  sense  in  her  own  self 
Of  my  contrasting  brightness,  overbore 
Her  fancy  dwelling  in  this  dusky  hall  ; 

And  such  a sense  might  make  her  long  for 
court 

And  all  its  dangerous  glories  : and  I thought. 
That  could  I someway  prove  such  force  in 
her 

Link’d  with  such  love  for  me,  that  at  a word 
(No  reason  given  her)  she  could  cast  aside 
A splendor  dear  to  women,  new  to  her. 

And  therefore  dearer  ; or  if  not  so  new. 

Yet  therefore  tenfold  dearer  by  the  power 
Of  intermitted  custom  ; then  I felt 
That  I could  rest,  a rock  in  ebbs  and  flows, 
Fixt  on  her  faith.  Now,  therefore,  I do  rest, 
A prophet  certain  of  my  prophecy. 

That  never  shadow  of  mistrust  can  cross 
Between  us.  Grant  me  pardon  for  my 
thoughts : 

And  for  my  strange  petition  I will  make 
Amends  hereafter  by  some  gaudy-day. 

When  your  fair  child  shall  wear  your  costly 
gift 

Beside  your  own  warm  hearth,  with,  on  her 
knees, 

Who  knows?  another  gift  of  the  high  God. 
Which,  maybe,  shall  have  learn’d  to  lisp  you 
thanks.” 

He  spoke  : the  mother  smiled,  but  half  in 
tears. 

Then  brought  a mantle  down  and  wrapt  her 
in  it. 

And  claspt  and  kiss’d  her,  and  they  rode 
away. 


Now  thrice  that  morning  Guinevere  had 
climb’d 

The  giant  tower,  from  whose  high  crest,  they 
say. 

Men  saw  the  goodly  hills  of  Somerset, 

And  white  sails  flying  on  the  yellow  sea  ; 

But  not  to  goodly  hill  or  yellow  sea 
Look’d  the  fair  Queen,  but  up  the  vale  of 
Usk, 

By  the  flat  meadow,  till  she  saw  them  come  ; 
And  then  descending  met  them  at  the  gates. 
Embraced  her  with  all  welcome  as  a friend. 
And  did  her  honor  as  the  Prince’s  bride. 

And  clothed  her  for  her  bridals  like  the  sun  ; 
And  all  that  week  was  old  Caerleon  gay. 

For  by  the  hands  of  Dubric,  the  high  saint. 
They  twain  were  wedded  with  all  ceremony. 

And  this  was  on  the  last  year’s  Whitsun- 
tide. 

But  Enid  ever  kept  the  faded  silk. 
Remembering  how  first  he  came  on  her, 
Brest  in  that  dress,  and  how  he  loved  her 
in  it. 

And  all  the  foolish  fears  about  the  dress. 

And  all  his  journey  toward  her,  as  himself 
Had  told  her,  and  their  coming  to  the  court. 

And  now  this  morning  when  he  said  to  her, 
“ Put  on  your  worst  and  meanest  dress,”  she 
found 

And  took  it,  and  array’d  herself  therein. 

O purblind  race  of  miserable  men, 

How  many  among  us  at  this  very  hour 
Do  forge  a life-long  trouble  for  ourselves. 

By  taking  true  for  false,  or  false  for  true  ; 
Here,  thro’  the  feeble  twilight  of  this  world 
Groping,  how  many,  until  we  pass  and  reach 
That  other,  where  we  see  as  we  are  seen  ! 

So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  issuing  forth 
That  morning,  when  they  both  had  got  to 
horse. 

Perhaps  because  he  loved  her  passionately. 
And  felt  that  tempest  brooding  round  his 
heart. 

Which,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  would  break  per- 
force 

Upon  a head  so  dear  in  thunder,  said  : 

“Not  at  my  side  ! I charge  you  ride  before. 
Ever  a good  way  on  before  ; and  this 
I charge  you,  on  your  duty  as  a wife. 
Whatever  happens,  not  to  speak  to  me. 

No,  not  a word  ! ” and  Enid  was  aghast ; 

And  forth  they  rode,  but  scarce  three  paces 
on. 

When  crying  out,  “ Effeminate  as  I am, 

I will  not  fight  my  way  with  gilded  arms, 

All  shall  be  iron  ” ; he  loosed  a mighty  purse. 
Hung  at  his  belt,  and  hurl’d  it  toward  the 
squire. 

So  the  last  sight  that  Enid  had  of  home 
Was  all  the  marble  threshold  flashing,  strown 
With  gold  and  scatter’d  coinage,  and  the 
squire 

Chafing  his  shoulder  ; then  he  cried  again, 
“To  the  wilds!”  and  Enid  leading  down 
the  tracks 


ENID. 


Tfaro*  which  he  bade  her  lead  him  on,  they 
past 

The  marches,  and  by  bandit-haunted  holds, 
Gray  swamps  and  pools,  waste  places  of  the 
hern, 

And  wildernesses,  perilous  paths,  they  rode  : 
Round  was  their  pace  at  first,  but  slacken’d 
soon  : 

A stranger  meeting  them  had  surely  thought. 
They  rode  so  slowly  and  they  look’d  so  pale. 
That  each  had  suffer’d  some  exceeding  wrong. 
For  he  was  ever  saying  to  himself, 

“ O I that  wasted  time  to  tend  upon  her. 

To  compass  her  with  sweet  observances, 

To  dress  her  beautifully  and  keep  her  true  ” — 
And  there  he  broke  the  sentence  in  his  heart 
Abruptly,  as  a man  upon  his  tongue 
May  break  it,  when  his  passion  masters  him. 
And  she  was  ever  praying  the  sweet  heavens 
To  save  her  dear  lord  whole  from  any  wound. 
And  ever  in  her  mind  she  cast  about 
For  that  unnoticed  failing  in  herself. 

Which  made  him  look  so  cloudy  and  so  cold  : 
I'ill  the  great  plover’s  human  whistle  amazed 
Her  heart,  and  glancing  round  the  waste  she 
fear’d 

In  every  wavering  brake  an  ambuscade. 

Then  thought  again  “If  there  be  such  in  me, 
I might  amend  it  by  the  grace  of  heaven. 

If  he  would  only  speak  and  tell^ne  of  it.” 

But  when  the  fourth  part  of  the  day  was 
gone, 

Then  Enid  was  aware  of  three  tall  knights 
On  horseback,  w'holly  arm’d,  behind  a rock 
In  shadow,  waiting  for  them,  caitiffs  all ; 

And  heard  one  crying  to  his  fellow,  “ Look, 
Here  comes  a laggard  hanging  down  his  head. 
Who  seems  no  bolder  than  a beaten  hound  ; 
Come,  we  will  slay  him  and  will  have  his 
horse 

And  armor,  and  his  damsel  shall  be  ours.” 

Then  Enid  ponder’d  in  her  heart,  and  said  : 
“ I will  go  back  a little  to  my  lord, 

And  I will  tell  him  all  their  caitiff  talk; 

For,  be  he  wroth  even  to  slaying  me. 

Far  liever  by  his  dear  hand  had  I die. 

Than  that  my  lord  should  suffer  loss  or 
shame.” 

Then  she  went  back  some  paces  of  return. 
Met  his  full  frown  timidly  firm,  and  said  ; 

“ My  lord,  I saw  three  bandits  by  the  rock 
Waiting  to  fall  on  you,  and  heard  them  boast 
That  they  would  slay  you,  and  possess  your 
horse 

And  armor,  and  your  damsel  should  be  theirs.” 

He  made  a wrathful  answ'er.  “ Did  I wish 
Your  warning  or  your  silence  ? one  command 
I laid  upon  you,  not  to  speak  to  me. 

And  thus  you  keep  it!  Well  then,  look  — 
for  now. 

Whether  you  wish  me  victory  or  defeat, 

Long  for  my  life,  or  hunger  for  my  death. 
Yourself  shall  see  my  vigor  is  not  lost.” 


173 

Then  Enid  waited  pale  and  sorrowful. 

And  down  upon  him  bare  the  bandit  three. 
And  at  the  midmost  charging,  Prince  Geraint 
Drave  the  long  spear  a cubit  thro’  his  breast 
And  out  beyond  ; and  then  against  his  brace 
Of  comrades,  each  of  whom  had  broken  on 
him 

A lance  that  splinter’d  like  an  icicle. 

Swung  from  his  brand  a windy  buffet  out 
Once,  twice,  to  right,  to  left,  and  stunn’d  the 
twain 

Or  slew  them,  and  dismounting  like  a man 
That' skins  the  wild  beast  after  slaying  him, 
Stript  from  the  three  dead  wolves  of  woman 
born 

The  three  gay  suits  of  armor  which  they  wore, 
And  let  the  bodies  lie,  but  bound  the  suits 
Of  armor  on  their  horses,  each  on  each. 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 
Together,  and  said  to  her,  “ Drive  them  on 
Before  you  ” ; and  she  drove  them  thro’  the 
waste. 

He  follow’d  nearer:  ruth  began  to  work 
Against  his  anger  in  him,  while  he  watch’d*’*’ 
The  being  he  loved  best  in  all  the  world. 
With  difficulty  in  mild  obedience 
Driving  them  on  : he  fain  had  spoken  to  her. 
And  loosed  in  words  of  sudden  fire  the  wrath 
And  smoulder’d  wrong  that  burnt  him  all 
within;^ 

But  evermore  it  seem’d  an  easier  thing 
At  once  without  remorse  to  strike  her  dead. 
Than  to  cry  “ Halt,”  and  to  her  own  bright 
face 

Accuse  her  of  the  least  immodesty : 

And  thus  tongue  tied,  it  made  him  wroth  the 
more 

That  she  could  speak  whom  his  own  ear  had 
heard 

Call  herself  false  : and  suffering  thus  he  made 
Minutes  an  age  : but  in  scarce  longer  time 
Than  at  Caerleon  the  full-tided  Usk, 

Before  he  turn  to  fall  seaward  again. 

Pauses,  did  Enid,  keeping  watch,  behold 
In  the  first  shallow  shade  of  a deep  wood, 
Before  a gloom  of  stubborn-shafted  oaks. 
Three  other  horsemen  waiting,  wholly  arm’d. 
Whereof  one  seem’d  far  larger  than  her  lord, 
And  shook  her  pulses,  crying,  “ Look,  a 
prize  ! 

Three  horses  and  three  goodly  suits  of  arms. 
And  all  in  charge  of  whom  ? a girl : set  on.” 
“Nay,”  said  the  second,  “yonder  comes  a 
knight.” 

The  third,  “A  craven!  how’  he  hangs  his 
head.” 

The  giant  answer’d  merrily,  “ Yea,  but  one  ? 
Wait  here,  and  when  he  passes  fall  upon 
him.” 

And  Enid  ponder’d  in  her  heart  and  said, 

“ I will  abide  the  coming  of  my  lord. 

And  I will  tell  him  all  their  villany. 

My  lord  is  weary  with  the  fight  before. 

And  they  will  fall  upon  him  unawares. 

I needs  must  disobey  him  for  his  good  ; 

How  should  I dare  obey  him  to  his  harm  ? 


ENID, 


174 

Needs  must  I speak,  and  tho’  he  kill  me 
for  it, 

I save  a life  dearer  to  me  than  mine.” 

And  she  abode  his  cominjr,  and  said  to  hirn 
With  timid  firmness,  “Have  I leave  to 
speak  ? ” 

He  said,  “You  take  it,  speaking,”  and  she 
spoke. 

**  There  lurk  three  villains  yonder  in  the 
wood, 

And  each  of  them  is  wholly  arm’d,  and  one 
Is  larger-limb’d  than  you  are,  and  they  say 
That  they  will  fall  upon  you  while  you  pass.” 

To  which  he  flung  a wrathful  answer  back  : 
“ And  if  there  were  an  hundred  in  the  wood, 
And  every  man  were  larger-limb’d  than  1, 
And  all  at  once  should  sally  out  upon  me, 

I swear  it  would  not  ruffle  me  so  much 
As  you  that  not  obey  me.  Stand  aside. 

And  if  I fall,  cleave  to  the  better  man.” 

And  Enid  stood  aside  to  w'ait  the  event, 
Not  dare  to  watch  the  combat,  only  breathe 
Short  fits  of  prayer,  at  every  stroke  a breath. 
And  he,  she  dreaded  most,  bare  down  upon 
him. 

Aim’d  at  the  helm,  his  lance  err’d ; but  Ge- 
raint’s, 

A little  in  the  late  encounter  strain’d. 

Struck  thro’  the  bulky  bandit’s  corselet  home, 
And  then  brake  short,  and  down  his  enemy 
roll’d 

And  there  lay  still ; as  he  that  tells  the  tale, 
Saw'  once  a great  piece  of  a promontory. 
That  had  a sapling  growling  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff’s  W’indy  walls  to  the 
beach. 

And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling  grew; 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt.  His  craven  pair 
Of  comrades,  making  slowlier  at  the  Prince, 
When  now'  they  saw  their  bulwark  fallen, 
stood ; 

On  W'hom  the  victor,  to  confound  them  more, 
Spurr’d  with' his  terrible  war-cry  ; for  as  one, 
That  listens  near  a torrent  mountain-brook, 
All  thro’  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  w'ont  to  hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it, 
And  foe  men  scared,  like  that  false  pair  w ho 
turn’d 

Flying,  but,  overtaken,  died  the  death  _ 
Themselves  had  wrought  on  many  an  inno- 
cent. 

Thereon  Geraint,  dismounting,  pick’d  the 
lance 

That  pleased  him  best,  and  drew  from  those 
dead  wolves 

Their  three  gay  suits  of  armor,  each  from 
each. 

And  bound  them  on  their  horses,  each  on 
each. 

And  tied  the  bridle-reins  of  all  the  three 


Together,  and  said  to  her,  “ Drive  them  on 
Before  you,”  and  she  drove  them  thro’  the 
wood. 

He  follow’d  nearer  still;  the  pain  she 
had 

To  keep  them  in  the  wild  w'ays  of  the  wood, 
Two  sets  of  three  laden  with  jingling  arms, 
Together,  served  a little  to  disedge 
The  sharpness  of  that  pain  about  her  heart ; 
And  they  themselves,  like  creatures  gently 
born 

But  into  bad  hands  fall’n,  and  now  so  long 
By  bandits  groom’d,  prick’d  their  light  ears, 
and  felt 

Her  low  firm  voice  and  tender  government. 

So  thro’  the  green  gloom  of  the  w'ood  they 
past, 

An4  issuing  under  open  heavens  beheld 
A little  town  with  towers,  upon  a rock, 

And  close  beneath,  a meadow  gemlike  chased 
In  the  brown  wild,  and  mow'ers  mow  ing  in  it : 
And  down  a rocky  pathway  from  the  place 
There  came  a fair-hair’d  youth,  that  in  his 
hand 

Bare  victual  for  the  mow'ers  : and  Geraint 
Had  ruth  a^ain  on  Enid  looking  pale  ; 

Then,  moving  downw'ard  to  the  meadow 
ground. 

He,  when  the  fair-hair’d  youth  came  by  him, 
said, 

“ Friend,  let  her  eat ; the  damsel  is  so  faint.” 
“ Yea,  willingly,”  replied  the  youth  ; “ and 
you. 

My  lord,  eat  also,  tho’  the  fare  is  coarse, 
And  only  meet  for  mowers  ” ; then  set  down 
His  basket,  and  dismounting  on  the  sward 
They  let  the  horses  graze,  and  ate  them- 
selves. 

And  Enid  took  a little  delicately. 

Less  having  stomach  for  it  than  desire 
To  close  with  her  lord’s  pleasure ; but 
Geraint 

Ate  all  the  mowers’  victual  unaw'ares. 

And  when  he  found  all  empty,  was  amazed  : 
And  “ Boy,”  said  he,  “ I have  eaten  all,  but 
take 

A horse  and  arms  for  guerdon ; choose  the 
best.” 

He,  reddening  in  extremity  of  delight, 

“ My  lord,  you  overpay  me  fifty  fo'd.’’ 

“You  will  be  all  the  w'ealthier,”  cried  the 
Prince. 

“ I take  it  as  free  gift,  then,”  said  the  boy, 

“ Not  guerdon  ; for  myself  can  easily, 

While  your  good  damsel  rests,  return,  and 
fetch 

Fresh  victual  for  these  mowers  of  our  Earl ; 
For  these  are  his,  and  all  the  field  is  his. 
And  I myself  am  his ; and  I will  tell  him 
How  great  a man  you  are  ; he  loves  to  know 
When  men  of  mark  are  in  his  territory: 

And  he  will  have  you  to  his  palace  here. 

And  serve  you  costlier  than  w'ith  mow-ers’ 
fare.” 

Then  said  Geraint,  **  I wish  no  better  fare ; 
I never  ate  with  angrier  appetite 


ENID. 


175 


Than  when  I left  your  mowers  dinnerless. 
And  into  no  Earl’s  palace  w’iil  I go. 

I know,  God  knows,  too  much  of  palaces ! 
And  if  he  want  me,  let  him  come  to  me. 

But  hire  us  some  fair  chamber  for  the  nighr, 
And  stalling  for  the  horses,  and  return 
With  victual  for  these  men,  and  let  us  know.” 

“Yea,  my  kind  lord,”  said  the  glad  youth, 
and  went. 

Held  his  head  high,  and  thought  himself  a 
knight. 

And  up  the  rocky  pathway  disappear’d. 
Leading  the  horse,  and  they  were  left  alone. 

But  when  the  Prince  had  brought  his  errant 
eyes 

Home  from  the  rock,  sideways  he  let  them 
glance 

At  Enid,  where  she  droopt : his  own  false 
doom. 

That  shadow  of  mistrust  should  never  cross 
Betwixt  them,  came  upon  him,  and  he  sigh’d; 
Then  with  another  humorous  ruth  remark’d 
T’ne  lusty  mowers  laboring  dinnerless, 

And  watch’d  the  sun  blaze  on  the  turning 
scythe. 

And  after  nodded  sleepily  in  the  heat. 

But  she,  remembering  her  old  ruin’d  hall. 
And  all  the  windy  clamor  of  the  daws 
About  her  hollow  turret,  pluck’d  the  grass 
There  growing  longest  by  tlie  meadow’s  edge, 
And  into  many  a listless  annulet. 

Now  over,  now  beneath  her  marriage  ring, 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  till  the  boy  return’d 
And  told  them  of  a chamber,  and  they  went ; 
Where,  after  saying  to  her,  “ If  you  will. 

Call  for  the  woman  of  the  house,”  to  which 
She  answer’d,  “Thanks,  my  lord”  ; the  two 
remain’d 

Apart  by  all  the  chamber’s  width,  and  mute 
As  creatures  voiceless  thro’  the  fault  of  birth, 
Or  two  wild  men  supporters  of  a shield. 
Painted,  who  stare  at  open  space,  nor  glance 
The  one  at  other,  parted  by  the  shield. 

On  a sudden,  many  a voice  along  the  street. 
And  heel  against  the  pavement  echoing,  burst 
Their  drowse ; and  either  started  while  the 
door, 

Push’d  from  without,  drave  backward  to  the 
wall, 

And  midmost  of  a rout  of  roisterers. 
Femininely  fair  and  dissolutely  pale. 

Her  suitor  in  old  years  before  Geraint, 
Enter’d,  the  wild  lord  of  the  place,  Limours. 
He  moving  up  with  pliant  courtliness. 
Greeted  Geraint  full  face,  but  stealthily. 

In  the  mid-warmth  of  welcome  and  graspt 
hand. 

Found  Enid  with  the  comer  of  his  eye. 

And  knew  her  sitting  sad  and  solitary. 

Then  cried  Geraint  for  wine  and  goodly  cheer 
To  feed  the  sudden  guest,  and  sumptuously 
According  to  his  fashion,  bade  the  host 
Call  in  what  men  soever  were  his  friends. 
And  feast  with  these  in  honor  of  their  earl ; 

“ And  care  not  for  the  cost ; the  cost  is  mine.” 


And  wine  and  food  were  brought,  and  Earl 
Limours 

Drank  till  he  jested  with  all  ease,  and  told 
Free  tales,  and  took  the  word  and  play’d 
upon  it. 

And  made  it  of  two  colors  ; for  his  talk. 
When  wine  and  free  companions  kindled  him. 
Was  wont  to  glance  and  sparkle  like  a gem 
Of  fifty  facets  ; thus  he  moved  the  Prince 
To  laughter  and  his  comrades  to  applause. 
Then,  when  the  Prince  was  merry,  ask’d 
Limours, 

“Your  leave,  my  lord,  to  cross  the  room, 
and  speak 

To  your  good  dam.sel  there  who  sits  apart 
And  seems  so  lonely?”  “ My  free  leave,” 
he  said ; 

“ Get  her  to  speak  ; she  does  not  speak  to 
me.” 

Then  rose  Limours  and  looking  at  his  feet. 
Like  him  who  tries  the  bridge  he  fears  may 
fail, 

Crost  and  came  near,  lifted  adoring  eyes. 
Bow’d  at  her  side  and  utter’d  whisperingly  ; 

“ Enid,  the  pilot  star  of  my  lone  life, 

Enid  my  early  and  my  only  love, 

Enid  the  loss  of  whom  has  turn’d  me  wild  — 
What  chance  is  this  ? how  is  it  1 see  you 
here  ? 

You  are  in  my  power  at  last,  are  in  my  power. 
Yet  fear  me  not : I call  mine  own  self  w’iid. 
But  keep  a touch  of  sweet  civility 
Here  in  the  heart  of  w'aste  and  wilderness. 

I thought,  but  that  your  father  came  between. 
In  former  days  you  saw  me  favorably. 

And  if  it  were  so  do  not  keep  it  back  : 

Make  me  a little  happier  : let  me  know  it : 
Owe  you  me  nothing  for  a life  half-lost  ? 

Yea,  yea,  the  whole  dear  debt  of  all  you  are. 
And,  Enid,  you  and  he,  I see  it  with  joy  — 
You  sit  apart,  you  do  not  speak  to  him. 

You  come  with  no  attendance,  page  or  maid. 
To  serve  you  — does  he  love  you  as  of  old? 
For,  call  it  lovers’  quarrels,  3'et  I know 
Tho’  men  may  bicker  with  the  things  they 
love, 

They  would  not  make  them  laughable  in  all 
eyes. 

Not  while  they  loved  them;  and  youf 
wretched  dress, 

A wretched  insult  on  you,  dumbly  speaks 
Your  story,  that  this  man  loves  you  no  more. 
Your  beauty  is  no  beauty  to  him  now  : 

A common  chance  — right  well  I know  it  — 
pall’d  — 

For  I know  men  — nor  will  you  win  him  back, 
For  the  man’s  love  once  gone  never  re- 
turns. 

But  here  is  one  who  loves  you  as  of  old  ; 
With  more  exceeding  passion  than  of  old: 
Good,  speak  the  word ; my  followers  ring 
him  round  : 

He  sits  unarm’d  ; I hold  a finger  up  ; 

They  understand  : no  ; I do  not  mean  blood: 
Nor  need  you  look  so  scared  at  what  I say  : 
My  malice  is  no  deeper  than  a moat, 

No  stronger  than  a wall : there  is  the  keep  ; 


176 


ENID. 


He  shall  not  cross  us  more ; speak  but  the 
word  : 

Or  speak  it  not ; but  then  by  Him  that  made 
me 

The  one  true  lover  which  you  ever  had, 

I will  make  use  of  all  the  power  I have. 

O pardon  me  ! the  madness  of  that  hour, 
When  first  1 parted  from  you,  moves  me  yet” 

At  this  the  tender  sound  of  his  own  voice 
And  sweet  self-pity,  or  the  fancv  of  it. 

Made  his  eye  moist ; but  Enid  fear’d  his 
eyes, 

Moist  as  they  were,  wine-heated  from  the 
feast ; 

And  answer’d  with  such  craft  as  women  use, 
Guilty  or  guiltless,  to  stave  off  a chance 
That  breaks  upon  them  perilously,  and  said  : 

“ Earl,  if  you  love  me  as  in  former  years. 
And  do  not  practise  on  me,  come  with  morn. 
And  snatch  me  from  him  as  by  violence  ; 
Leave  me  to-night ; I am  weary  to  the  death,” 

Low'  at  leave-taking,  with  his  brandish’d 
plume 

Brushing  his  instep,  bow’d  the  all-amorous 
Earl, 

And  the  stout  Prince  bade  him  a loud  good- 
night. 

He  moving  homeward  babbled  to  his  men, 
How  Enid  never  loved  a man  but  him. 

Nor  cared  a broken  egg-shell  for  her  lord. 

But  Enid  left  alone  with  Prince  Geraint, 
Debating  his  command  of  silence  given, 

And  that  she  now  perforce  must  violate  it. 
Held  commune  with  herself,  and  while  she 
held- 

He  fell  asleep,  and  Enid  had  no  heart 
To  wake  him,  but  hung  o’er  him,  wholly 
pleased 

To  find  him  yet  unwounded  after  fight. 

And  hear  him  breathing  low  and  equally. 
Anon  she  rose,  and  stepping  lightly,  heap’d 
The  pieces  of  his  armor  in  one  place. 

All  to  be  there  against  a sudden  need ; 

Then  dozed  awhile  herself,  but  overtoil’d 
By  that  day’s  grief  and  travel,  evermore 
Seem’d  catching  at  a rootless  thorn,  and  then 
Went  slipping  down  horrible  precipices, 

And  strongly  striking  out  her  limbs  awoke ; 
Then  thought  she  heard  the  wild  Earl  at  the 
door. 

With  all  his  rout  of  random  follow’ers, 

Sound  on  a dreadful  trumpet,  summoning  her; 
Which  was  the  red  cock  shouting  to  the  light. 
As  the  gray  dawn  stole  o’er  the  dewy  world. 
And  glimmer’d  on  his  armor  in  the  room. 
And  once  again  she  rose  to  look  at  it. 

But  touch’d  it  unawares  : jangling,  the  casque 
Fell,  and  he  started  up  and  stared  at  her. 
Then  breaking  his  command  of  silence  given. 
She  told  him  all  that  Earl  Limours  had  said, 
Except  the  passage  that  he  loved  her  not ; 
Nor  left  untold  the  craft  herself  had  used  ; 
But  ended  with  apology  so  sweet. 
Low-spoken,  and  of  so  few  words,  and  seem’d 
So  justified  by  that  necessity, 


That  tho’  he  thought  “was  it  for  him  she 
wept 

In  Devon  ?”  he  but  gave  a wrathful  groan. 
Saying  “ your  sweet  faces  make  good  fellows 
fools 

And  traitors.  Call  the  host  and  bid  him  bring 
Charger  and  palfrey.”  So  she  glided  out 
Among  the  heavy  breathings  of  the  house, 
And  like  a household  Spirit  at  the  walls 
Beat,  till  she  woke  the  sleepers,  and  return’d  : 
Then  tending  her  rough  lord,  tho’  all  unask’d, 
In  silence,  did  him  service  as  a squire ; 

Till  issuing  arm’d  he  found  the  host  and  cried 
“Thy  reckoning,  friend?”  and  ere  he  learnt 
it,  “Take 

Five  horses  and  their  armors  ” ; and  the  host. 
Suddenly  honest,  answer’d  in  amaze, 

“ My  lord,  I scarce  have  spent  the  worth  of 
one  ! ” 

“You  will  be  all  the  wealthier,”  said  the 
Prince, 

And  then  to  Enid,  “ Forward  ! and  to-day 
1 charge  you,  Enid,  more  especially, 

What  thing  soever  you  may  hear  or  see. 

Or  fancy  (tho’  I count  it  of  small  use 
To  charge  you)  that  you  speak  not  but  obey,” 

And  Enid  answer’d,  “Yea,  my  lord,  I 
know 

Your  wish,  and  would  obey  : but  riding  first, 
I hear  the  violent  threats  you  do  not  hear, 

I see  the  danger  which  you  cannot  see  ; 

Then  not  to  give  you  warning,  that  seems 
hard  ; 

Almost  beyond  me  : yet  I would  obey.” 

“Yea  so,”  said  he,  “do  it:  be  not  too 
wise ; 

Seeing  that  you  are  wedded  to  a man, 

Not  quite  mismated  with  a yawning  clown. 
But  one  with  arms  to  guard  his  head  and 
yours, 

With  eyes  to  find  you  out  however  far. 

And  ears  to  hear  you  even  in  his  dreams.” 

With  that  he  turned  and  looked  as  keenly  at 
her 

As  careful  robins  eye  the  delver’s  toil ; 

And  that  within  her  which  a wanton  fool, 

Or  hasty  judger,  would  have  called  her  guilt. 
Made  her  cheek  burn  and  either  eyelid  fall. 
And  Geraint  look’d  and  was  not  satisfied*- 

Then  forward  by  a way  which,  beaten 
broad, 

Led  from  the  territory  of  false  Limours 
To  the  waste  earldom  of  another  earl,  ^ 
Doorm,  whom  his  shaking  vassals  call’d  the 
Bull, 

Went  Enid  with  her  sullen  follower  on. 

Once  she  look’d  back,  and  when  she  saw  him 
ride 

More  nearby  many  a rood  than  yestermom, 
It  wellnigh  made  her  cheerful  : till  Geraint 
Waving  an  angry  hand  as  who  should  say 
“ You  watch  me,”  saddened  all  her  heart 
again. 

But  while  the  sun  yet  beat  a dewy  blade. 


ENID. 


The  sound  of  many  a heavily-galloping  hoof 
Smote  on  her  ear,  and  turning  round  she  saw 
Dust,  and  the  points  of  lances  bicker  in  it. 
Then  not  to  disobey  her  lord’s  behest, 

And  yet  to  give  him  warning,  for  he  rode 
As  if  he  heard  not,  moving  back  she  held 
Her  finger  up,  and  pointed  to  the  dust. 

At  which  the  warrior  in  his  obstinacy. 
Because  she  kept  the  letter  of  his  word 
Was  in  a manner  pleased,  and  turning,  stood. 
And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 
Borne  on  a black  horse,  like  a thunder-cloud 
Whose  skirts  are  loosen’d  by  the  breaking 
storm, 

Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he  rode. 
And  all  in  passion  uttering  a dry  shriek. 
Dash’d  on  Geraint,  who  closed  with  him  and 
bore 

Down  by  the  length  of  lance  and  arm  be- 
yond 

The  crupper,  and  so  left  him  stunn’d  or  dead, 
And  overthrew  the  next  that  follow’d  him. 
And  blindly  rush’d  on  all  the  rout  behind. 
But  at  the  flash  and  motion  of  the  man 
They  vanish’d  panic-stricken,  like  a shoal 
Of  darting  fish,  that  on  a summer  morn 
Adown  the  crystal  dikes  at  Camelot 
Come  slipping  o’er  their  shadows  on  the  sand. 
But  if  a man  who  stands  upon  the  brink 
But  lift  a shining  hand  against  the  sun. 

There  is  not  left  the  twinkle  of  a fin 
Betwixt  the  cressy  islets  white  in  flower; 

So,  scared  but  at  the  motion  of  the  man, 

Fled  all  the  boon  companions  of  the  Earl, 
And  left  him  lying  in  the  public  way  : 

So  vanish  friendships  only  made  in  wine. 

Then  like  a stormy  sunlight  smiled  Geraint, 
Who  saw  the  chargers  of  the  two  that  fell 
Start  from  their  fallen  lords,  and  wildly  fly, 
Mixt  with  the  flyers.  “ Horse  and  man,”  he 
said, 

“All  of  one  mind  and  all  right-honest  friends  ! 
Not  a hoof  left ; and  I methinks  till  now 
Was  honest  — paid  with  horses  and  with 
arms : 

I cannot  steal  or  plunder,  no  nor  beg  : 

And  so  what  say  you,  shall  we  strip  him 
there 

Your  lover?  has  your  palfrey  heart  enough 
To  bear  his  armor?  shall  we  fast  or  dine  ? 
No?  — then  do  you,  being  right  honest,  pray 
That  we  may  meet  the  horsemen  of  Earl 
Doorm, 

I too  would  still  be  honest.”  Thus  he  said  ; 
And  sadly  gazing  on  her  bridle-reins. 

And  answering  not  one  word,  she  led  the 
way. 

But  as  a man  to  whom  a dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a far  land  and  he  knows  it  not. 

But  coming  back  he  learns  it,  and  the  loss 
So  pains  him  that  he  sickens  nigh  to  death  ; 
So  fared  it  with  Geraint,  who  being  prick’d 
In  combat  with  the  follower  of  Limours, 

Bled  underneath  his  armor  secretly. 

And  so  rode  on,  nor  told  his  gentle  wife 
What  ail’d  him,  hardly  knowing  it  himself. 


177 

Till  his  eye  darken’d  and  his  helmet  wagg’d  ; 
And  at  a sudden  swerving  of  the  road, 

Tho’  happily  down  on  a bank  of  grass. 

The  Prince,  without  a word,  from  his  horse 
fell. 

And  Enid  heard  the  clashing  of  his  fall. 
Suddenly  came,  and  at  his  side  all  pale 
Dismounting,  loosed  the  fastenings  of  his 
arms. 

Nor  let  her  true  hand  falter,  nor  blue  eye 
Moisten,  till  she  had  lighted  on  his  wound. 
And  tearing  off  her  veil  of  faded  silk 
Had  bared  her  forehead  to  the  blistering  sun. 
And  swathed  the  hurt  that  drain’d  her  dear 
lord’s  life. 

Then  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do. 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way. 

And  many  past,  but  none  regarded  her, 

For  in  that  realm  of  lawless  turbulence, 

A woman  weeping  for  her  murder’d  mate 
Was  cared  as  much  for  as  a summer  shower: 
One  took  him  for  a victim  of  Earl  Doorm, 
Nor  dared  to  waste  a perilous  pity  on  him  : 
Another  hurrying  past,  a man-at-arms, 

Rode  on  a mission  to  the  bandit  Earl  ; 

Half  whistling  and  half  singing  a coarse  song. 
He  drove  the  dust  against  her  veilless  eyes  : 
Another,  flying  from  the  wrath  of  Doorm 
Before  an  ever-fancied  arrow,  made 
The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  his 
fear ; 

At  which  her  palfrey  whinnying  lifted  heel. 
And  scour’d  into  the  coppices  and  was  lost, 
While  the  great  charger  stood,  grieved  like  a 
man. 

But  at  the  point  of  noon  the  huge  Earl 
Doorm, 

Broad-faced  with  under-fringeof  russet  beard. 
Bound  on  a foray,  rolling  eyes  of  prey. 

Came  riding  with  a hundred  lances  up  ; 

But  ere  he  came,  like  one  that  hails  a ship, 
Cried  out  with  a big  voice,  “ What,  is  h« 
dead  ? ” 

“No,  no,  not  dead!”  she  answer’d  in  all 
haste. 

“ Would  some  of  your  kind  people  take  him 
up, 

And  bear  him  hence  out  of  this  cruel  sun  ; 
Most  sure  am  I,  quite  sure,  he  is  not  dead.” 

Then  said  Earl  Doorm  : “ Well,  if  he  be 
not  dead. 

Why  wail  you  for  him  thus  ? you  seem  a child. 
And  be  he  dead,  I count  you  for  a fool  : 

Your  wailing  will  not  quicken  him  : dead  or 
not. 

You  mar  a comely  face  with  idiot  tears. 

Yet,  since  the  face  is  comely  — some  of you, 
Here,  take  him  up,  and  bear  him  to  our 
hall : 

And  if  he  live,  we  will  have  him  of  our  band  ; 
And  if  he  die,  why  earth  has  earth  enough 
To  hide  him.  See  ye  take  the  charger  too, 

A noble  one.” 


ENID. 


178 


He  spake,  and  past  away, 
But  left  two  brawny  spearmen,  who  advanced. 
Each  growling  like  a dog,  when  his  good  bone 
Seems  to  be  pluck’d  at  by  the  village  boys 
Who  love  to  vex  him  eating,  and  he  fears 
To  lose  his  bone,  and  lays  his  foot  upon  it. 
Gnawing  and  growling ; so  the  ruffians 
growl’d. 

Fearing  to  lose,  and  all  for  a dead  man. 
Their  chance  of  booty  from  the  morning’s 
raid  ; 

Yet  raised  and  laid  him  on  a litter-bier. 

Such  as  they  brought  upon  their  forays  out 
For  those  that  might  be  wounded  , laid  him 
on  it 

All  in  the  hollow  of  his  shield,  and  took 
And  bore  him  to  the  naked  hall  of  Doorm, 
(His  gentle  charger  following  him  unled) 
And  cast  him  and  the  bier  in  which  he  lay 
Down  on  an  oaken  settle  in  the  hall. 

And  then  departed,  hot  in  haste  to  join 
Their  luckier  mates,  but  growling  as  before, 
And  cursing  their  lost  time,  and  the  dead  man. 
And  their  own  Earl,  and  their  own  souls,  and 
her. 

They  might  as  well  have  blest  her  : she  was 
deaf 

To  blessing  or  to  cursing  save  from  one. 

So  for  long  hours  sat  Enid  by  her  lord. 
There  in  the  naked  hall,  propping  his  head. 
And  chafing  his  pale  hands,  and  calling  to 
him. 

And  at  the  last  he  waken’d  from  his  swoon. 
And  found  his  own  dear  bride  propping  his 
head. 

And  chafing  his  faint  hands,  and  calling  to 
him  ; 

And  felt  the  warm  tears  falling  on  his  face  ; 
And  said  to  his  own  heart,  “ She  weeps  for 
me  ” ; 

And  yet  lay  still,  and  feign’d  himself  as  dead. 
That  he  might  prove  her  to  the  uttermost. 
And  say  to  his  own  heart,  “ She  weeps  for 
me.” 

But  in  the  falling  afternoon  return’d 
The  huge  Earl  Doorm  with  plunder  to  the 
hall. 

His  lusty  spearmen  follow’d  him  with  noise  : 
Each  hurling  down  a heap  of  things  that  rang 
Against  the  pavement,  cast  his  lance  aside, 
And  doff’d  his  helm  : and  then  there  flutter’d 
in. 

Half-bold,  half-frighted,  with  dilated  eyes, 

A tribe  of  women,  dress’d  in  many  hues. 

And  mingled  with  the  spearmen  : and  Earl 
Doorm 

Struck  with  a knife’s  haft  hard  against  the 
board. 

And  call’d  for  flesh  and  wine  to  feed  his 
spears. 

And  men  brought  in  whole  hogs  and  quarter 
beeves. 

And  all  the  hall  was  dim  with  steam  of  flesh  : 
And  none  spake  word,  but  all  sat  down  at 
once. 

And  ate  with  tumult  in  the  naked  hall, 


Feeding  like  horses  when  you  hear  them 
feed  ; 

Till  Enid  shrank  far  back  into  herself. 

To  shun  the  wild  ways  of  the  lawless  tribe. 
But  when  Earl  Doorm  had  eaten  all  he  would, 
He  roll’d  his  eyes  about  the  hall,  and  found 
A damsel  drooping  in  a corner  of  it. 

Then  he  remember’d  her,  and  how  she  wept ; 
And  out  of  her  there  came  a power  upon  him  : 
And  rising  on  the  sudden  he  said,  “ Eat  ! 

I never  yet  beheld  a thing  so  pale. 

God’s  curse,  it  makes  me  mad  to  see  you 
weep. 

Eat ! Look  yourself.  Good  luck  had  your 
good  man. 

For  were  I dead  who  is  it  would  weep  for  me? 
Sweet  lady,  never  since  I first  drew  breath, 
Have  I beheld  a lily  like  yourself 
And  so  there  lived  some  color  in  your  cheek, 
There  is  not  one  among  my  gentlewomen 
Were  fit  to  wear  your  slipper  for  a glove. 

But  listen  to  me,  and  by  me  be  ruled. 

And  I will  do  the  thing  I have  not  done, 

For  you  shall  share  my  earldom  with  me, 

And  we  will  live  like  tw'o  birds  in  one  nest, 
And  I will  fetch  you  forage  from  all  fields, 
For  I compel  all  creatures  to  my  will.” 

He  spoke  : the  brawny  spearman  let  his  cheek 
Bulge  with  the  unswallow’d  piece,  and  turn- 
ing, stared ; 

While  some,  whose  souls  the  old  serpent  long 
had  drawn 

Down,  as  the  worm  draws  in  the  wither’d  leaf 
And  makes  it  earth,  hiss’d  each  at  other’s  ear 
What  shall  not  be  recorded — women  they. 
Women,  or  what  had  been  those  gracious 
things. 

But  now  desired  the  humbling  of  their  best, 
Yea,  would  have  helped  him  to  it ; and  all  at 
once 

They  hated  her,  w'ho  took  no  thought  of  them. 
But  answer’d  in  low  voice,  her  meek  head  yet 
Drooping,  “ I pray  you  of  your  courtesy. 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  me  be.” 

She  spake  so  low  he  hardly  heard  her  speak. 
But  like  a mighty  patron,  satisfied 
With  what  himself  had  done  so  graciously. 
Assumed  that  she  had  thanked  him,  adding, 
“ Yea, 

Eat  and  be  glad,  for  I account  you  mine.’* 

She  answer’d  meekly,  “ How  should  I be 
glad 

Henceforth  in  all  the  world  at  anything. 
Until  my  lord  arise  and  look  upon  me?  ” 

Here  the  huge  Earl  cried  out  upon  her  talk. 
As  all  but  empty  heart  and  weariness 
And  sickly  nothing  ; suddenly  seized  on  her. 
And  bare  her  by  main  violence  to  the  board. 
And  thrust  the  dish  before  her,  crying, 
“Eat.” 

“ No,  no,”  said  Enid,  vext,  “ I will  not  eat^ 
Till  yonder  man  upon  the  bier  arise. 


ENID, 


179 


And  eat  with  me.”  Drink,  then,”  he  an- 
swered. “ Here  ! ” 

(And  fill’d  a horn  with  wine  and  held  it  to 
her,) 

“ Lo  1 I,  myselfj  when  flush’d  with  fight,  or 
hot, 

God’s  curse,  with  anger  — often  I myself, 
Before  I well  have  drunken,  scarce  can  eat: 
Drink  therefore,  and  the  wine  will  change 
your  will.” 

Not  so,”  she  cried,  **by  Heaven,  I will 
not  drink. 

Till  my  dear  lord  arise  and  bid  me  do  it. 

And  drink  with  me  ; and  if  he  rise  no  more, 
1 will  not  look  at  wine  until  I die.” 

At  this  he  turn’d  all  red  and  paced  his  hall, 
No  v gnaw’d  his  under,  now  his  upper  lip, 
And  coming  up  close  to  her,  said  at  last : 

“ Girl,  for  I see  you  scorn  my  courtesies, 
Take  warning  ; yonder  man  is  surely  dead ; 
And  I compel  all  creatures  to  my  will. 

Not  eat  nor  drink?  And  wherefore  wail  for 
one. 

Who  put  your  beauty  to  this  flout  and  scorn 
By  dressing  it  in  rags?  Amazed  am  I, 
Beholding  how  you  butt  against  my  wish. 
That  I forbear  you  thus  : cross  me  no  more. 
At  least  put  off  to  please  me  this  poor  gown. 
This  silken  rag,  this  beggar-woman’s  weed; 

I love  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully  ; 

For  see  you  not  my  gentlewomen  here. 

How  gay,  how  suited  to  the  house  of  one, 
Who  loves  that  beauty  should  go  beautifully  ! 
Rise  therefore  ; robe  yourself  in  this  : obey.” 

He  spoked  and  one  among  his  gentle- 
women 

Display’d  a splendid  silk  of  foreign  loom, 
Where  like  a shoaling  sea  the  lovely  blue 
Play’d  into  green,  and  thicker  down  the 
front 

With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops  of 
dew. 

When  all  night  long  a cloud  clings  to  the  hill. 
And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung  : so  thickly  shone  the 
gems. 

But  Enid  answer’d,  harder  to  be  moved 
Than  hardest  tyrants  in  their  day  of  power, 
With  life-long  injuries  burning  unavenged. 
And  now  their  hour  has  come  ; and  Enid 
said: 

“ In  this  poor  gown  my  dear  lord  found  me 
first. 

And  loved  me  serving  in  my  father’s  hall : 

In  this  poor  gown  I rode  with  him  to  court. 
And  there  the  Queen  array’d  me  like  the 
sun  : 

In  this  poor  gown  he  bade  me  clothe  myself. 
When  now  we  rode  upon  this  fatal  quest 
Of  honor,  where  no  honor  can  be  gain’d  : 
And  this  poor  gown  I will  not  cast  aside 
Until  himself  arise  a living  man, 

And  bid  me  cast  it.  I have  griefs  enough : 


Pray  you  be  gentle,  pray  you  let  me  be : 

I never  loved,  can  never  love  but  him  : 

Yea,  God,  I pray  you  of  your  gentleness, 

He  being  as  he  is,  to  let  ms  be.” 

Then  strode  the  brute  Earl  up  and  down  his 
hall, 

And  took  his  russet  beard  between  his  teeth  ; 
Last,  coming  up  quite  close,  and  in  his  mood 
Crying,  “ I count  it  of  no  more  avail. 

Dame,  to  be  gentle  than  ungentle  with  you  ; 
Take  my  salute,”  unknightly  with  flat  hand, 
However  lightly,  smote  her  on  the  cheek. 
Then  Enid,  in  her  utter  helplessness. 

And  since  she  thought,  “ he  had  not  dared  t<k 
do  it. 

Except  he  surely  knew  my  lord  was  dead,” 
Sent  forth  a sudden  sharp  and  bitter  cry. 

As  of  a wild  thing  taken  in  the  trap, 

Which  sees  the  trapper  coming  thro’  the 
wood. 

This  heard  Geraint,  and  grasping  at  his 
sword, 

(It  lay  beside  him  in  the  hollow  shield,) 
Made  but  a single  bound,  and  with  a sweep 
of  it 

Shore  thro’  the  swarthy  neck,  and  like  a ball 
The  russet-bearded  head  roll’d  on  the  floor. 
So  died  Earl  Doorm  by  him  he  counted  dead. 
And  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  hall 
Rose  when  they  saw  the  dead  man  rise,  and 
fled 

Yelling  as  from  a spectre,  and  the  two 
Were  left  alone  together,  and  he  said  : 

” Enid  I have  used  you  worse  than  that 
dead  man  ; 

Done  you  more  wrong  : we  both  have  under- 
gone 

That  trouble  which  has  left  me  thrice  your 
own  : 

Henceforward  I will  rather  die  than  doubt. 
And  here  I lay  this  penance  on  myself, 

Not,  tho’  mine  own  ears  heard  you  yester- 
morn  — 

You  thought  me  sleeping,  but  I heard  you 
say, 

I heard  you  say,  that  you  were  no  true  wife  ; 
I swear  I will  not  ask  your  meaning  in  it : 

I do  believe  yourself  against  yourself, 

And  will  henceforward  rather  die  than 
doubt.” 

And  Enid  could  not  say  one  tender  word, 
She  felt  so  blunt  and  stupid  at  the  heart : 
She  only  pray’d  him,  “ Fly,  they  will  return 
And  slay  you  ; fly,  your  charger  is  without, 
My  palfrey  lost.”  ” Then,  Enid,  shall  you 
ride 

Behind  me.”  “ Yea,”  said  Enid,  let  us  go.” 
And  moving  out  they  found  the  stately  horse, 
Who  now  no  more  a vassal  to  the  thief. 

But  free  to  stretch  his  limbs  in  lawful  fight, 
Neigh’d  with  all  gladness  as  they  came,  and 
stoop’d  ■ 

With  a low  whinny  toward  the  pair : and  she 
Kiss’d  the  while  star  upon  his  noble  front, 


i8o 


ENID. 


Glad  also ; then  Geraint  upon  the  horse 
Mounted,  and  reach’d  a hand,  and  on  his 
foot 

She  set  her  own  and  climb’d  ; he  turn’d  his 
face 

And  kiss’d  her  climbing,  and  she  cast  her 
arms 

About  him,  and  at  once  they  rode  away. 

And  never  yet,  since  high  in  Paradise 
O’er  the  four  rivers  the  first  roses  blew. 

Came  purer  pleasure  unto  mortal  kind, 

Than  lived  thro’  her  who  in  that  perilous 
hour 

Put  hand  to  hand  beneath  her  husband’s 
heart. 

And  felt  him  hers  again  : she  did  not  weep. 
But  o’er  her  meek  eyes  came  a happy  mist 
Like  that  which  kept  the  heart  of  Eden  green 
Before  the  useful  trouble  of  the  rain  : 

Yet  not  so  misty  were  her  meek  blue  eyes 
As  not  to  see  before  them  on  the  path. 

Right  in  the  gateway  of  the  bandit  hold, 

A knight  of  Arthur’s  court,  who  laid  his  lance 
In  rest,  and  made  as  if  to  fall  upon  him. 
Then,  fearing  for  his  hurt  and  loss  of  blood. 
She,  with  her  mind  all  full  of  what  had 
chanced. 

Shriek’d  to  the  stranger,  “Slay  not  a dead 
man  ! ” 

“The  voice  of  Enid,”  said  the  knight : but 
she. 

Beholding  it  was  Edyrn  son  of  Nudd, 

Was  moved  so  much  the  more,  and  shriek’d 
again, 

“O  cousin,  slay  not  him  who  gave  you  life.” 
And  Edyrn  moving  frankly  forward  spake  : 

“ My  lord  Geraint,  I greet  you  with  all  love  ; 
I took  you  for  a bandit  knight  of  Doorm  ; 
And  fear  not,  Enid,  I should  fall  upon  him, 
Who  love  you.  Prince,  with  something  of  the 
love 

Wherewith  we  love  the  Heaven  that  chastens 
us. 

For  once,  when  I was  up  so  high  in  pride 
That  I was  half  way  down  the  slope  to  Hell, 
By  overthrowing  me  you  threw  me  higher. 
Now,  made  a knight  of  Arthur’s  Table  Round, 
And  since  I knew  this  Earl,  when  I myself 
Was  half  a bandit  in  my  lawless  hour, 

I come  the  mouthpiece  of  our  King  to  Doorm 
(The  King  is  close  behind  me)  bidding  him 
Disband  himself,  and  scatter  all  his  powers. 
Submit,  and  hear  the  judgment  of  the  King.” 

“ He  hears  the  judgment  of  the  King  of 
Kings,” 

Cried  the  wan  Prince  : “ and  lo  the  powers 
of  Doorm 

Are  scatter’d,”  and  he  pointed  to  the  field 
Where,  huddled  here  and  there  on  mound 
and  knoll. 

Were  men  and  women  staring  and  aghast. 
While  some  yet  fled ; and  then  he  plainlier 
told 

How  the  huge  Earl  lay  slain  within  his  hall. 
But  when  the  knight  besought  him,  “ Follow 
me, 


Prince,  to  the  camp,  and  in  the  King’s  own 
ear 

Speak  what  has  chanced ; you  surely  have 
endured 

Strange  chances  here  alone  ” ; that  other 
flush’d. 

And  hung  his  head,  and  halted  in  reply. 
Fearing  the  mild  face  of  the  blameless  King, 
And  after  madness  acted  question  ask’d  : 

Till  Edyrn  crying,  “If  you  will  not  go 
To  Arthur,  then  will  Arthur  come  to  you,” 
“Enough,”  he  said,  “I  follow,”  and  they 
went. 

But  Enid  in  their  going  had  two  fears. 

One  from  the  bandit  scatter’d  in  the  field. 
And  one  from  Edyrn.  Every  now  and  then. 
When  Edyrn  rein’d  his  charger  at  her  side. 
She  shrank  a little.  In  a hollow  land, 

I rom  which  old  fires  have  broken,  men  may 
fear 

Fresh  fire  and  ruin.  He,  perceiving,  said : 

“ Fair  and  dear  cousin,  you  that  most  had 
cause 

To  fear  me,  fear  no  longer,  I am  changed. 
Yourself  were  first  the  blameless  cause  to 
make 

My  nature’s  prideful  sparkle  in  the  blood 
Break  into  furious  flame  ; being  repulsed 
By  Yniol  and  yourself,  I schemed  and  wrought 
Until  I overturn’d  him  ; then  set  up 
(With  one  main  purpose  ever  at  my  heart) 
My  haughty  jousts,  and  took  a paramour; 
Did  her  mock-honor  as  the  fairest  fair. 

And,  toppling  over  all  antagonism. 

So  wax’d  in  pride,  that  I believed  myself 
Unconquerable,  for  I was  wellnigh  mad  : 
And,  but  for  my  main  purpose  in  these 
jousts, 

I should  have  slain  your  father,  seized  your- 
self. 

I lived  in  hope  that  some  time  you  would 
come 

To  these  my  lists  with  him  whom  best  you 
loved ; 

And  there,  poor  cousin,  with  your  meek  blue 
eyes. 

The  truest  eyes  that  ever  answer’d  heaven. 
Behold  me  overturn  and  trample  on  him. 
Then,  had  you  cried,  or  knelt,  or  pray’d  to 
me, 

I should  not  less  have  killed  him.  And  you 
came,  — 

But  once  you  came,  — and  with  your  own 
true  eyes 

Beheld  the  man  you  loved  (I  speak  as  one 
Speaks  of  a service  done  him)  overthrow 
My  proud  self,  and  my  purpose  three  years 
old, 

And  set  his  foot  upon  me,  and  give  me  life. 
There  was  I broken  down  ; there  was  I saved  : 
Tho’  thence  I rode  all-shamed,  hating  the 
life 

He  gave  me,  meaning  to  be  rid  of  it. 

And  all  the  penance  the  Queen  laid  upon  me 
Was  but  to  rest  awhile  within  her  court ; 
Where  first  as  sullen  as  a beast  new-caged, 
And  waiting  to  be  treated  like  a wolf, 


ENID.  i8i 


Because  I knew  my  deeds  were  known,  I 
found, 

Instead  of  scornful  pity  or  pure  scorn, 

Such  fine  reserve  and  noble  reticence. 
Manners  so  kind,  yet  stately,  such  a grace 
Of  tenderest  courtesy,  that  I began 
To  glance  behind  me  at  my  former  life. 

And  find  that  it  had  been  the  wolfs  indeed  : 
And  oft  I talk’d  with  Dubric,  the  high  saint. 
Who,  with  mild  heat  of  holy  oratory. 
Subdued  me  somewhat  to  that  gentleness, 
Which,  when  it  weds  with  manhood,  makes 
a man. 

And  you  were  often  there  about^  the  Queen, 
But  saw  me  not,  or  marked  not  if  you  saw  ; 
Nor  did  I care  or  dare  to  speak  with  you. 

But  kept  myself  aloof  till  I was  changed ; 
And  fear  not,  cousin  ; I am  changed  indeed.” 

He  spoke,  and  Enid  easily  believed. 

Like  simple  noble  natures,  credulous 
Of  what  they  long  for,  good  in  friend  or  foe. 
There  most  in  those  who  most  have  done 
them  ill. 

And  when  they  reach’d  the  camp  the  king 
himself 

Advanced  to  greet  them,  and  beholding  her 
Tho’  pale,  yet  happy,  ask’d  her  not  a word. 
But  went  apart  with  Edyrn,  whom  he  held 
In  converse  for  a little,  and  return’d. 

And,  gravely  smiling,  lifted  her  from  horse, 
And  kiss’d  her  with  all  pureness,  brother-like. 
And  show’d  an  empty  tent  allotted  her. 

And  glancing  for  a minute,  till  he  saw  her 
Pass  into  it,  turn’d  to  the  Prince,  and  said  : 

“ Prince,  when  of  late  you  pray’d  me  for 
my  leave 

To  move  to  your  own  land,  and  there  defend 
Your  marches,  I was  prick’d  with  some  re- 
proof. 

As  one  that  let  foul  wrong  stagnate  and  be, 
By  having  look’d  too  much  thro’  alien  eyes. 
And  wrought  too  long  with  delegated  hands, 
Not  used  mine  own  : but  now  behold  me 
come 

To  cleanse  this  common  sewer  of  all  my 
realm. 

With  Edyrn  and  with  others  : have  you 
look’d 

At  Edyrn?  have  you  seen  how' nobly  changed? 
This  work  of  his  is  great  and  wonderful. 

His  very  face  with  change  of  heart  is  changed. 
The  world  will  not  believe  a man  repents  : 
And  this  wise  world  of  ours  is  mainly  right. 
Full  seldom  does  a man  repent,  or  use 
Both  grace  and  will  to  pick  the  vicious  quitch 
Of  blood  and  custom  wholly  out  of  him. 

And  make  all  clean,  and  plant  himself  afresh. 
Edyrn  has  done  it,  weeding  all  his  heart 
As  I will  weed  this  land  before  I go. 

I,  therefore,  made  him  of  our  Table  Round, 
Not  rashly,  but  have  proved  him  every  way 
One  of  our  noblest,  our  most  valorous, 
Sanest  and  most  obedient ; and  indeed 
This  work  of  Edyrn  wrought  upon  himself 
After  a life  of  violence,  seems  to  me 
A thousand-fold  more  great  and  wonderful 


Than  if  some  knight  of  mine,  risking  his  life, 
My  subject  with  my  subjects  under  him. 
Should  make  an  onslaught  single  on  a realm 
Of  robbers,  tho’  he  slew  them  one  by  one, 
And  were  himself  nigh  wounded  to  the 
death.” 

So  spake  the  King ; low  bow’d  the  Prince, 
and  felt 

His  work  was  neither  great  nor  wonderful. 
And  past  to  Enid’s  tent ; and  thither  came 
The  King’s  own  leech  to  look  into  his  hurt ; 
And  Enid  tended  on  him  there  ; and  there 
Her  constant  motion  round  him,  and  th« 
breath 

Of  her  sweet  tendance  hovering  over  him. 
Fill’d  all  the  genial  courses  of  his  blood 
With  deeper  and  with  ever  deeper  love, 

As  the  south-west  that  blowing  Bala  lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.  So  past  the  days. 

But  while  Geraint  lay  healing  of  his  hurt. 
The  blameless  King  went  forth  and  cast  his 
eyes 

On  whom  his  father  Uther  left  in  charge 
Long  since,  to  guard  the  justice  of  the  King ; 
He  look’d  and  found  them  wanting ; and  as 
now 

Men  w'eed  the  white  horse  on  the  Berkshire 
hills 

To  keep  him  bright  and  clean  as  heretofore. 
He  rooted  out  the  slothful  officer 
Or  guilty,  which  for  bribe  had  wink’d  at 
wrong. 

And  in  their  chairs  set  up  a stronger  race 
With  hearts  and  hands,  and  sent  a thousand 
men 

To  till  the  wastes,  and  moving  everywhere 
Clear’d  the  dark  places  and  let  in  the  law. 
And  broke  the  bandit  holds  and  cleansed  the 
land. 

Then,  when  Geraint  was  whole  again,  they 
past 

With  Arthur  to  Caerleon  upon  Usk. 

There  the  great  Queen  once  more  embraced 
her  friend, 

And  clothed  her  in  apparel  like  the  day. 

And  tho’  Geraint  could  never  take  again 
That  comfort  from  their  converse  which  he 
took 

Before  the  Queen’s  fair  name  was  breathed 
upon. 

He  rested  well  content  that  all  was  w^ell. 
Thence  after  tarrying  for  a space  they  rode. 
And  fifty  knights  rode  with  them  to  the  shores 
Of  Severn,  and  they  past  to  their  own  land. 
And  there  he  kept  the  justice  of  the  King 
So  vigorously  yet  mildly,  that  all  hearts 
Applauded,  and  the  spiteful  whisper  died  : 
And  being  ever  foremost  in  the  chase. 

And  victor  at  the  tilt  and  tournament. 

They  call’d  him  the  great  Prince  and  man  of 
men. 

But  Enid,  whom  her  ladies  loved  to  call 
Enid  the  Fair,  a grateful  people  named 
Enid  the  Good  ; and  in  their  halls  arose 
The  cry  of  children,  Enids  and  Geraints 


i82 


y/FIEN’. 


Of  times  to  be;  nor  did  he  doubt  her  more 
But  rested  in  her  fealty,  till  he  crown’d 
A happy  life  with  a fair  death,  and  fell 
Against  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea 
in  battle,  fighting  for  the  blameless  King. 


VIVIEN. 

A STORM  was  coming,  but  the  winds  were 
still, 

And  in  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande, 
Before  an  oak,  so  hollow  huge  and  old 
It  look’d  a tower  of  ruin’d  masonwork. 

At  Merlin’s  feet  the  wily  Vivien  lay. 

The  wily  Vivien  stole  from  Arthur’s  court: 
She  hated  all  the  knights,  and  heard  in 
thought 

Their  lavish  comment  when  her  name  was 
named. 

For  once,  when  Arthur  walking  all  alone, 
Vext  at  a rumor  rife  about  the  Queen, 

Had  met  her,  Vivien,  being  greeted  fair. 
Would  fain  have  wrought  upon  his  cloudy 
mood 

With  reverent  eyes  mock-loyal,  shaken  voice. 
And  flutter’d  adoration,  and  at  last 
With  dark  sweet  hints  of  some  who  prized 
him  more 

Than  who  should  prize  him  most ; at  which 
the  King 

Had  gazed  upon  her  blankly  and  gone  by  : 
But  one  had  watch’d,  and  had  not  held  his 
peace : 

It  made  the  laughter  of  an  afternoon 
That  Vivien  should  attempt  the  blameless 
King. 

And  after  that,  she  set  herself  to  gam 
Him,  the  most  famous  man  of  all  those  times. 
Merlin,  who  knew  the  range  of  all  their  arts, 
Had  built  the  King  his  havens,  ships,  and 
halls. 

Was  also  Bard,  and  knew  the  starry  heavens ; 
The  people  called  him  Wizard  ; whom  at  first 
She  play’d  about  with  slight  and  sprightly 
talk. 

And  vivid  smiles,  and  faintly-venom’d  points 
Of  slander,  glancing  here  and  grazing  there  ; 
And  yielding  to  his  kindlier  moods,  the  Seer 
Would  watch  her  at  her  petulance,  and  play, 
Ev’n  when  they  seem’d  unlovable,  and  laugh 
As  those  that  watch  a kitten  ; thus  he  grew 
Tolerant  of  what  he  half  disdain’d,  and  she. 
Perceiving  that  she  was  but  half  disdain’d, 
Began  to  break  her  sports  with  graver  fits. 
Turn  red  or  pale,  would  often  when  they  met 
Sigh  fully,  or  all-silent  gaze  upon  him 
With  such  a fixt  devotion,  that  the  old  man, 
Tho’  doubtful,  felt  the  flattery,  and  at  times 
Would  flatter  his  own  wish  in  age  for  love. 
And  half  believe  her  true  : for  thus  at  times 
He  w'aver’d  ; but  that  other  clung  to  him, 
Fixt  in  her  will,  and  so  the  seasons  went. 
Then  fell  upon  him  a great  melancholy  ; 

And  leaving  Arthur’s  court  he  gain’d  the 
beach ; 


There  found  a little  boat,  and  stept  into  it ; 
And  Vivien  follow’d,  but  he  mark’d  her  not. 
She  took  the  helm  and  he  the  sail ; the  boat 
Drave  with  a sudden  wind  across  the  deeps. 
And  touching  Breton  sands  they  disem- 
bark’d. 

And  then  she  follow’d  Merlin  all  the  way, 
Ev’n  to  the  wild  woods  of  Broceliande. 

For  Merlin  once  had  told  her  of  a charm. 
The  whidi  if  any  wrought  on  any  one 
With  woven  paces  and  with  waving  arms. 
The  man  so  wrought  on  ever  seem’d  to  lie 
Closed  in  the  four  w'alls  of  a hollow  tower. 
From  which  was  no  escape  forevermore  ; 

And  none  could  find  that  man  forevermore. 
Nor  could  he  see  but  him  who  wrought  the 
charm 

Coming  and  going,  and  he  lay  as  dead 
And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 
And  Vivien  ever  sought  to  work  the  charm 
Upon  the  great  Enchanter  of  the  Time, 

As  fancying  that  her  glory  would  be  great 
According  to  his  greatness  whom  . she 
quench’d. 

There  lay  she  all  her  length  and  kiss’d  his 
feet. 

As  if  in  deepest  reverence  and  in  love. 

A twist  of  gold  was  round  her  hair ; a robe 
Of  samite  without  price,  that  more  exprest 
Than  hid  her,  clung  about  her  lissome  limbs, 
In  color  like  the  satin-shining  palm 
On  sallows  in  the  windy  gleams  of  March  : 
And  while  she  kiss’d  them,  crying,  “ Tram- 
ple me, 

Dear  feet,  that  I have  follow’d  thro’  the 
world, 

And  I will  pay  you  w'orship  ; tread  me  dow-n 
And  I will  kiss  you  for  it  ” ; he  was  mute  : 
So  dark  a forethought  roll’d  about  his  brain. 
As  on  a dull  day  in  an  Ocean  cave 
The  blind  w'ave  feeling  round  his  long  sea- 
hall 

In  silence  : wherefore,  when  she  lifted  up 
A face  of  sad  appeal,  and  spake  and  said, 

“ O Merlin,  do  you  love  me  ? ” and  again, 
“O  Merlin,  do  you  love  me?”  and  once 
more, 

“Great  Master,  do  you  love  me?”  he  was 
mute. 

And  lissome  Vivien,  holding  by  his  heel, 
Writhed  toward  him,  slided  up  his  knee  and 
sat, 

Behind  his  ankle  twined  her  hollow'  feet 
Together,  curved  an  arm  about  his  neck. 
Clung  like  a snake  ; and  letting  her  left  hand 
Droop  from  his  mighty  shoulder  as  a leaf, 
Made  with  her  right  a comb  of  pearl  to  part 
The  lists  of  such  a beard  as  youth  gone  out 
Had  left  in  ashes  : then  he  spoke  and  said, 
Not  looking  at  her,  “ Who  are  wise  in  love 
Love  most,  say  least,”  and  Vivien  answer’d 
quick, 

“ I saw  the  little  elf-god  eyeless  once 
In  Arthur’s  airas  hall  at  Camelot : 

But  neither  eyes  nor  tongue, — O stupid 
child  ! 

Yet  you  are  wise  who  say  it ; let  me  think 
Silence  is  wisdom  : I am  silent  then 


VIVIEN. 


And  ask  no  kiss  ” ; then  adding  all  at  once, 
“And  lo,  I clothe  myself  with  wisdom,”  drew 
The  vast  and  shaggy  mantle  of  his  beard 
Across  her  neck  and  bosom  to  her  knee, 

And  call’d  herself  a gilded  summer  fly 
Caught  in  a great  old  tyrant  spider’s  web, 
Who  meant  to  eat  her  up  in  that  wild  wood 
Without  one  word.  So  Vivien  call’d  her- 
self, 

But  rather  seem’d  a lovely  baleful  star 
Veil’d  in  gray  vapor  ; till  he  sadly  smiled  : 

“ To  what  request  for  what  strange  boon,”  he 
said, 

“ Are  these  your  pretty  tricks  and  fooleries, 
O Vivien,  the  preamble  ? yet  my  thanks, 

For  these  have  broken  up  my  melancholy.” 


And  Vivien  answer’d  smiling  saucily, 

“ What,  O my  Master,  have  you  found  your 
voice  ? 

I bid  the  stranger  welcome.  Thanks  at  last ! 
But  yesterday  you  never  open’d  lip. 

Except  indeed  to  drink  : no  cup  had  we  : 

In  mine  own  lady  palms  I cull’d  the  spring 
That  gather’d  trickling  drop  wise  from  the 
cleft. 

And  made  a pretty  cup  of  both  my  hands 
And  offer’d  you  it  kneeling  : then  you  drank 
And  knew  no  more,  nor  gave  me  one  poor 
word ; 

O no  more  thanks  than  might  a goat  have 
given 

With  no  more  sign  of  reverence  than  a 
beard. 

And  when  we  halted  at  that  other  well. 

And  I was  faint  to  swooning,  and  you  lay 
Foot-gilt  with  all  the  blossom-dust  of  those 
Deep  meadows  we  had  traversed,  .did  you 
know 

That  Vivien  bathed  your  feet  before  her 
own  ? 

And  yet  no  thanks : and  all  thro’  this  wild 
wood 

And  all  this  morning  when  I fondled  you : 
Boon,  yes,  there  was  a boon,  one  not  so 
strange  — 

How  had  I wrong’d  you?  surely  you  are 
wise. 

But  such  a silence  is  more  wise  than  kind.” 


And  Merlin  lock’d  his  hand  in  hers  and 
said  : 

“O  did  you  never  lie  upon  the  shore. 

And  watch  the  curl’d  white  of  the  coming 
wave 

Glass’d  in  the  slippery  sand  before  it  breaks? 
Ev’n  such  a wave,  but  not  so  pleasurable. 
Dark  in  the  glass  of  some  presageful  mood. 
Had  I for  three  days  seen,  ready  to  fall. 

And  then  I rose  and  fled  from  Arthur’s  court 
To  break  the  mood.  You  follow’d  me  un- 
ask’d ; 

And  when  I look’d,  and  saw  you  following 
still, 

My  mind  involved  yourself  the  nearest  thing 
In  that  mind-mist  : for  shall  I tell  you  truth  ? 
You  seem’d  that  wave  about  to  break  upon 
me 


183 

And  sweep  me  from  my  hold  upon  the  world. 
My  use  and  name  and  fame.  Your  pardon, 
child. 

Your  pretty  sports  have  brighten’d  all  again. 
And  ask  your  boon,  for  boon  I owe  you  thrice. 
Once  for  wrong  done  you  by  confusion,  next 
For  thanks  it  seems  till  now  neglected,  last 
For  these  your  dainty  gambols  : wherefore 
ask  : 

And  take  this  boon  so  strange  and  not  so 
strange.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d,  smiling  mournfully  : 
“ O not  so  strange  as  my  long  asking  it. 

Nor  yet  so  strange  as  you  yourself  are  strange. 
Nor  half  so  strange  as  that  dark  mood  of 
yours. 

I ever  fear’d  you  were  not  wholly  mine  ; 

And  see,  yourself  have  own’d  you  did  me 
wrong. 

The  people  call  you  prophet : let  it  be  : 

But  not  of  those  that  can  expound  them- 
selves. 

Take  Vivien  for  expounder ; she  will  call 
That  three-days-long  presageful  gloom  of 
yours 

No  presage,  but  the  same  mistrustful  mood 
That  makes  you  seem  less  noble  than  your- 
selfi 

Whenever  I have  ask’d  this  very  boon. 

Now  ask’d  again  : for  see  you  not,  dear  love. 
That  such  a * mood  as  that,  which  lately 
gloom’d 

Your  fancy  when  you  saw  me  following  you. 
Must  make  me  fear  still  more  you  are  not 
mine. 

Must  make  me  yearn  still  more  to  prove  you 
mine. 

And  make  me  wish  still  more  to  learn  this 
charm 

Of  woven  paces  and  of  waving  hands, 

As  proof  of  trust.  O Merlin,  teach  it  me. 
The  charm  so  taught  will  charm  us  both  to 
rest. 

For,  grant  me  some  slight  power  upon  your 
fate, 

I,  feeling  that  you  felt  me  worthy  trust. 
Should  rest  and  let  you  rest,  knowing  you 
mine. 

And  therefore  be  as  great  as  you  are  named. 
Not  muffled  round  with  selfish  reticence. 
How  hard  you  look  and  how  denyingly  ! 

O,  if  you  think  this  wickedness  in  me. 

That  I should  prove  it  on  you  unawares. 

To  make  you  lose  your  use  and  name  and 
fame. 

That  makes  me  most  indignant ; then  our 
bond 

Had  best  be  loosed  forever  : but  think  or  not. 
By  Heaven  that  hears  I tell  you  the  clean 
truth. 

As  clean  as  blood  of  babes,  as  white  as  milk  ; 
O Merlin,  may  this  earth,  if  ever  I, 

If  these  un witty  wandering  wits  of  mine, 
Ev’n  in  the  jumbled  rubbish  of  a dream, 
Have  tript  on  such  conjectural  treachery  — 
May  this  hard  earth  cleave  to  the  Nadir  hell 
Down,  down,  and  close  again,  and  nip  me  flat. 


VIVIEN’. 


184 

If  I be  such  a traitress.  Yield  my  boon. 

Till  which  I scarce  can  yield  you  all  1 am  ; 
And  grant  my  re-reiterated  wish, 

The  great  proof  of  your  love  : because  I think, 
However  wise,  you  hardly  know  me  yet.” 

And  Merlin  loosed  his  hand  from  her  and 
said : 

“ I never  was  less  wise,  however  wise. 

Too  curious  Vivien,  tho’  you  talk  of  trust. 
Than  when  I told  you  first  of  such  a charm. 
Yea,  if  you  talk  of  trust  I tell  you  this. 

Too  much  I trusted,  when  I told  you  that. 
And  stirr’d  this  vice  in  you  which  ruin’d  man 
Thro’  woman  the  first  hour  ; for  howsoe’er 
In  children  a great  curiousness  be  well. 

Who  have  to  learn  themselves  and  all  the 
world. 

In  you,  that  are  no  child,  for  still  I find 
Your  face  is  practised,  when  1 spell  the  lines, 
I call  it,  — well,  I will  not  call  it  vice  : 

But  since  you  name  yourself  the  summer  fly, 
I well  could  wish  a cobweb  for  the  gnat. 

That  settles,  beaten  back,  and  beaten  back 
Settles,  till  one  could  yield  for  weariness : 
But  since  I will  not  yield  to  give  you  power 
Upon  my  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 
Why  will  you  never  ask  some  other  boon? 
Yea,  by  God’s  rood,  I trusted  you  too  much.” 

And  Vivien,  like  the  tenderest-hearted 
maid 

That  ever  bided  tryst  at  village  stile. 

Made  answer,  either  eyelid  wet  with  tears. 

“ Nay,  master,  be  not  wrathful  with  your 
maid  ; 

Caress  her  : let  her  feel  herself  forgiven 
Who  feels  no  heart  to  ask  another  boon. 

I think  you  hardly  know  the  tender  rhyme 
Of  ‘trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

I heard  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  sing  it  once, 
And  it  shall  answer  for  me.  Listen  to  it. 

‘ In  Love,  if  I.ove  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours. 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne’er  be  equal  powers: 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

‘ It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute. 

That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute. 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

‘ The  little  rift  within  the  lover’s  lute. 

Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner’d  fruit. 

That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

‘ It  is  not  worth  the  keeping : let  it  go  : 
But  shall  it  ? answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

O master,  do  you  love  my  tender  rhyme  ? ” 

And  Merlin  look’d  and  half  believed  her 
true. 

So  tender  was  her  voice,  so  fair  her  face. 

So  sweetly  gleam’d  her  eyes  behind  her  tears 
Like  sunlight  on  the  plain  behind  a shower : 
And  yet  he  answer’d  half  indignantly ; 


“ Far  other  was  the  song  that  once  I heard 
By  this  huge  oak,  sung  nearly  where  we  sit : 
For  here  we  met,  some  ten  or  twelve  of  us, 
To  chase  a creature  that  was  current  then 
In  these  wild  woods,  the  hart  with  golden 
horns. 

It  was  the  time  when  first  the  question  rose 
About  the  founding  of  a Table  Round, 

That  was  to  be,  for  love  of  God  and  men 
And  noble  deeds,  the  flower  of  all  the  world, 
And  each  incited  each  to  noble  deeds. 

And  while  we  waited,  one,  the  youngest  of  us, 
We  could  not  keep  him  silent,  out  he  flash’d. 
And  into  such  a song,  such  fire  for  fame. 
Such  trumpet-blowings  in  it,  coming  down 
To  such  a stern  and  iron-clashing  close. 

That  when  he  stopt  we  long’d  to  hurl  to- 
gether. 

And  should  have  done  it ; but  the  beauteous 
beast 

Scared  by  the  noise  upstarted  at  our  feet, 
And  like  a silver  shadow  slipt  away 
Thro’  the  dim  land ; and  all  day  long  we  rode 
Thro’  the  dim  land  against  a rushing  wind, 
That  glorious  roundel  echoing  in  our  ears. 
And  chased  the  flashes  of  his  golden  horns 
Until  they  vanish’d  by  the  fairy  well 
7’hat  laughs  at  iron  — as  our  warriors  did  — 
Where  children  cast  their  pins  and  nails,  and 
cry, 

“Laugh  little  w'ell,”  but  touch  it  with  a 
sword, 

I:  buzzes  wildly  round  the  point ; a^d  there 
We  lost  him  : such  a noble  song  was  that. 
But,  Vivien,  when  you  sang  me  that  sweet 
rhyme, 

I felt  as  tho’  you  knew  this  cursed  charm. 
Were  prpving  it  on  nie,  and  that  I lay 
And  felt  them  slowly  ebbing,  name  and 
fame.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d,  smiling  mournfully  ; 
“ O mine  have  ebb’d  aw'ay  foreyerrnore. 

And  all  thro’  following  you  to  this  wild  wood. 
Because  I saw  you  sad,  to  comfort  you. 

Lo  now,  what  hearts  have  men  ! they  never 
mount 

As  high  as  woman  in  her  selfless  mood. 

And  touching  fame,  howe’er  you  scorn  my 
song 

Take  one  verse  more  — the  lady  speaks  it  — 
this : 

‘ My  name,  once  mine,  now  thine,  is  close- 
lier  mine. 

For  fame,  could  fame  be  mine,  that  fame 
were  thine. 

And  shame,  could  shame  be  thine,  that 
shame  w'ere  mine. 

So  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all.’ 

“ Says  she  not  well  ? and  there  is  more  — 
this  rhyme 

Is  like  the  fair  pearl  necklace  of  the  Queen, 
That  burst  in  dancing,  and  the  pearls  were 
spilt  ; 

Some  lost,  some  stolen,  some  as  relics  kept. 
But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 


VIVIEN. 


185 


Ran  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each 
other 

On  her  white  neck  — so  is  it  with  this  rhyme  ; 
It  lives  dispersedly  in  many  hands, 

And  every  minstrel  sings  it  differently  ; 

Yet  is  there  one  true  line,  the  pearl  of  pearls  ; 
‘ Man  dreams  of  Fame  while  woman  wakes 
to  love.’ 

True  : Love,  tho’  Love  were  of  the  grossest, 
carves 

A portion  from  the  solid  present,  eats 
And  uses,,  careless  of  the  rest ; but  Fame, 
The  Fame  that  follows  death  is  nothing  to 
us  ; 

And  what  is  Fame  in  life  but  half-disfame, 
And  counterchanged  with  darkness?  you 
yourself 

Know  well  that  Envy  calls  you  Devil’s  son. 
And  since  you  seem  the  Master  of  all  Art, 
They  fain  would  make  you  Master  of  all 
Vice.” 

And  Merlin  lock’d  his  hand  in  hers  and 
said, 

“ I once  was  looking  for  a magic  weed. 

And  found  a fair  young 'fequire  who  sat  alone. 
Had  carved  himself  a knightly  shield  of  wood. 
And  then  was  painting  on  it  fancied  arms, 
Azure,  an  Eagle  rising,  or,  the  Sun 
In  dexter  chief ; the  scroll  ‘ I follow  fame.’ 
And  speaking  not,  but  leaning  over  him, 

I took  his  brush  and  blotted  out  the  bird, 
And  made  a Gardener  putting  in  a graff, 
With  this  for  motto,  ‘ Rather  use  than  fame.* 
You  should  have  seen  him  blush;  but  after- 
wards 

He  made  a stalwart  knight.  O Vivien, 

For  you,methinks  you  think  you  love  me  well ; 
For  me,  I love  you  somewhat:  rest;  and 
Love 

Should  have  some  rest  and  pleasure  in  him- 
self. 

Not  ever  be  too  curious  for  a boon, 

Too  prurient  for  a proof  against  the  grain 
Of  him  you  say  you  love;  but  Fame  with 
men. 

Being  but  ampler  means  to  serve  mankind. 
Should  have  small  rest  or  pleasure  in  herself, 
But  work  as  vassal  to  the  larger  love, 

That  dwarfs  the  petty  love  of  one  to  one. 

Use  gave  me  Fame  at  first,  and  Fame  again 
Increasing  gave  me  use.  Lo,  there  my  boon  ! 
What  other  ? for  men  sought  to  prove  me  vile. 
Because  I wish’d  to  give  them  greater  minds  ; 
And  then  did  Envy  call  me  Devil’s  son  ; 

The  sick  weak  beast  seeking  to  help  herself 
By  striking  at  her  better,  miss’d,  and  brought 
Her  own  claw  back,  and  wounded  her  own 
heart. 

Sweet  were  the  days  w'hen  I was  all  unknown. 
But  when  my  name  was  lifted  up,  the  storm 
Broke  on  the  mountain  and  I cared  not  for  it. 
Right  welLknow  I that  Fame  is  half-disfame, 
Yet  needs  must  work  my  work.  That  other 
fame, 

To  one  at  least,  w'ho  hath  not  children,  vague. 
The  cackle  of  the  unborn  about  the  grave, 

I cared  not  for  it : a single  misty  star. 


Which  is  the  second  in  a line  of  stars 
That  seem  a sword  beneath  a belt  of  three, 

I never  gazed  upon  it  but  1 dreamt 
Of  some  vast  charm  concluded  in  that  star 
To  make  fame  nothing.  Wherefore,  if  I fear, 
Giving  you  power  upon  me  thro’  this  charm. 
That  you  might  play  me  falsely,  having  power. 
However  well  you  think  you  love  me  now 
(As  sons  of  kings  loving  in  pupillage 
Have  turn’d  to  tyrants  when  they  came  to 
power) 

I rather  dread  the  loss  of  use  than  fame  ; 

If  you  — and  not  so  much  from  wickedness. 
As  some  wild  turn  of  anger,  or  a mood 
Of  overstrain’d  affection,  it  may  be, 

To  keep  me  all  to  your  own  self,  or  else 
A sudden  spurt  of  w'oman’s  jealousy, 

Should  try  this  charm  on  whom  you  say  you 
love.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d,  smiling  as  in  wrath  : 
“ Have  I not  sworn  ? I am  not  trusted. 
Good  ! 

Well,  hide  it,  hide  it ; I shall  find  it  out ; 
And  being  found  take  heed  of  Vivien. 

A woman  and  not  trusted,  doubtless  I 
Might  feel  some  sudden  turn  of  anger  born 
Of  your  misfaiih  ; and  your  fine  epithet 
Is  accurate  too,  for  this  full  love  of  mine 
Without  the  full  heart  back  may  merit  well 
Your  term  of  overstrain’d.  So  used  as  I, 

My  daily  won’der  is,  I love  at  all. 

And  as  to  woman’s  jealousy,  O why  not? 

0 to  what  end,  except  a jealous  one, 

And  one  to  make  me  jealous  if  I love. 

Was  this  fair  charm  invented  by  yourself? 

1 well  believe  that  all  about  this  world 
You  cage  a buxom  captive  here  and  there. 
Closed  in  the  four  walls  of  a hollow  tower 
From  which  is  no  escape  forevermore.” 

Then  the  great  Master  merrily  answer’d 
her ; ^ 

“ Full  many  a love  in  loving  youth  was  mine, 
I needed  then  no  charm  to  keep  them  mine 
But  youth  and  love  ; and  that  full  heart  of 
yours 

Whereof  you  prattle,  may  now  assure  you 
mine  ; 

So  live  uncharm’d.  For  those  who  wrought 
it  first. 

The  wrist  is  parted  from  the  hand  that  waved. 
The  feet  unmortised  from  their  ankle-bones 
Who  paced  it,  ages  back  : but  will  you  hear 
The  legend  as  in  guerdon  for  your  rhyme  ? 

“ There  lived  a king  in  the  most  Eastern 
East, 

Less  old  than  I,  yet  older,  for  my  blood 
Hath  earnest  in  it  of  far  springs  to  be. 

A tawny  pirate  anchor’d  in  his  port. 

Whose  bark  had  plunder’d  twenty  nameless 
isles ; 

And  passing  one,  at  the  high  peep  of  dawn. 
He  saw  two  cities  in  a thousand  boats 
All  fighting  for  a woman  on  the  sea. 

And  pushing  his  black  craft  among  them  all. 
He  lightly  scatter’d  theirs  and  brought  her  off. 


VIVIEN. 


186 

With  loss  of  half  his  people  arrow-slain  ; 

A maid  so  smooth,  so  white,  so  wonderful. 
They  said  a light  came  from  her  when  she 
moved  : 

And  since  the  pirate  would  not  yield  her  up, 
I he  King  impaled  him  for  his  piracy  : 

Then  made  her  Queen : but  those  isle-nur- 
tur  d eyes 

Waged  such  unwilling  tho*  successful  war 
On  all  the  youth,  they  sicken’d  ; councils 
thinn’d. 

And  armies  waned,  for  magnet-like  she  drew 
The  rustiest  iron  of  old  fighters’  hearts  ; 

And  beasts  themselves  would  w'orship;  cam- 
els knelt 

Unbidden,  and  the  brutes  of  mountain  back 
That  carry  kings  in  castles,  bow’d  black 
knees 

Of  homage,  ringing  with  their  serpent  hands. 
To  make  her  smile,  her  golden  ankle-bells. 
What  wonder  being  jealous,  that  he  sent 
His  horns  of  proclamation  out  thro’  all 
The  hundred  under-kingdoms  that  he  sway’d 
To  find  a wizard  who  might  teach  the  King 
Some  charm,  which  being  wrought  upon  the 
Queen 

Might  keep  her  all  his  own  : to  such  a one 
He  promised  more  than  ever  king  has  given, 
A league  of  mountain  full  of  golden  mines, 

A province  with  a hundred  miles  of  coast, 

A palace  and  a princess,  all  for  him  : 

But  on  all  those  who  tried  and  fail’d,  the 
King 

Pronounced  a dismal  sentence,  meaning  by  it 
To  keep  the  list  low  and  pretenders  back. 

Or  like  a king,  not  to  be  trifled  with  — 
Their  heads  should  moulder  on  the  city 
gates. 

And  many  tried  and  fail’d,  because  the  charm 
Of  nature  in  her  overbore  their  own  : 

And  many  a wizard  brow  bleach’d  on  the 
walls  : 

And  many  weeks  a troop  of  carrion  crows 
Hung  like  a cloud  above  the  gateway  towers.” 

And  Vivien,  breaking  in  upon  him,  said  : 

I sit  and  gather  honey  ; yet,  methinks. 
Your  tongue  has  tript  a little  : ask  yourself. 
The  lady  never  made  unwilling  war 
With  those  fine  eyes  : she  had  her  pleasure 
in  it. 

And  made  her  good  man  jealous  with  good 
cause. 

And  lived  there  neither  dame  nor  damsel 
then 

Wroth  at  a lover’s  loss?  were  all  as  tame, 

I mean,  as  noble,  as  their  Queen  was  fair? 
Not  one  to  flirt  a venom  at  her  eyes. 

Or  pinch  a murderous  dust  into  her  drink. 

Or  make  her  paler  with  a poison’d  rose  ? 
Well,  those  were  not  our  days  : but  did  they 
find 

A wizard?  Tell  me,  was  he  like  to  thee?” 

She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  round 
his  neck 

Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her 
eyes 


Speak  for  her,  glowing  on  him,  like  a bride’s 
On  her  new  lord,  her  own,  the  first  of  men. 

He  answer’d  laughing,  ” Nay,  not  like  to 
me. 

At  last  they  found  — his  foragers  for  charms — 
A little  glassy-headed  hairless  man. 

Who  lived  alone  in  a great  wild  on  grass  ; 
Read  but  one  book,  and  ever  reading  grew 
So  grated  down  and  filed  away  with  thought. 
So  lean  his  eyes  were  monstrous ; while  the 
skin 

Clung  but  to  crate  and  basket,  ribs  and  spine. 
And  since  he  kept  his  mind  on  one  sole  aim. 
Nor  ever  touch’d  fierce  wine,  nor  tasted  flesh. 
Nor  own’d  a sensua-l  wish,  to  him  the  wall 
That  sunders  ghosts  and  shadow-casting  men 
Became  a crystal,  and  he  saw  them  thro’  it. 
And  heard  their  voices  talk  behind  the  wall. 
And  learnt  their  elemental  secrets,  powers 
And  forces  ; often  o’er  the  sun’s  bright  eye 
Drew  the  vast  eyelid  of  an  inky  cloud. 

And  lash’d  it  at  the  base  with  slanting  storm ; 
Or  in  the  noon  of  mist  and  driving  rain. 
When  the  lake  whiten’d  and  the  pine-wood 
roar’d. 

And  the  cairn’d  mountain  was  a shadow, 
sunn’d 

The  world  to  peace  again  : here  was  the  man. 
And  so  by  force  they  dragg’d  him  to  the 
King. 

And  then  he  taught  the  King  to  charm  the 
Queen 

In  such  wise,  that  no  man  could  see  her 
more. 

Nor  saw  she  save  the  King,  who  wrought  the 
charm. 

Coming  and  going,  and  she  lay  as  dead. 

And  lost  all  use  of  life  : but  when  the  King 
Made  proffer  of  the  league  of  golden  mines. 
The  province  with  a hundred  miles  of  coast. 
The  palace  and  the  princess,  that  old  man 
Went  back  to  his  old  w ild,  and  lived  on  grass. 
And  vanish’d,  and  his  book  came  down  to 
me.” 

And  Vivien  answer’d,  smiling  saucily  : 

” You  have  the  book  : the  charm  is  written 
in  it : 

Good : take  my  counsel  : let  me  know'  it  at 
once  : 

For  keep  it  like  a puzzle  chest  in  chest. 

With  each  chest  lock’d  and  padlock’d  thirty- 
fold. 

And  whelm  all  this  beneath  as  vast  a mound 
As  after  furious  battle  turfs  the  slain 
On  some  wild  down  above  the  windy  deep, 

I yet  should  strike  upon  a sudden  means 
To  dig,  pick,  open,  find  and  read  the  charm  : 
Then,  if  I tried  it,  who  should  blame  me 
then  ? ” 

And  smiling  as  a Master  smiles  at  one 
That  is  not  of  his  school,  nor  any  school 
But  that  where  blind  and  naked  Ignorance 
Delivers  brawling  judgments,  unashamed. 

On  all  things  all  day  long,  he  answered  he>  : 


VIVIEN. 


187 


“ You  read  the  book,  my  pretty  Vivien  ! 

O ay,  it  is  but  twenty  pages  long, 

But  every  page  having  an  ample  marge. 

And  every  marge  enclosing  in  the  midst 
A square  of  text  that  looks  a little  blot, 

The  text  no  larger  than  the  limbs  of  fleas  ; 
And  every  square  of  text  an  awful  charm, 
Writ  in  a'language  that  has  long  gone  by. 

So  long,  that  mountains  have  arisen  since 
With  cities  on  their  flanks — you  read  the 
book  ! 

And  every  margin  scribbled,  crost  and 
cramm’d 

With  comment,  densest  condensation,  hard 
To  mind  and  eye ; but  the  long  sleepless 
nights 

Of  my  long  life  have  made  it  easy  to  me. 

And  none  can  read  the  text,  not  even  1 ; 

And  none  can  read  the  comment  but  myself ; 
And  in  the  comment  did  I find  the  charm. 

O,  the  results  are  simple  ; a mere  child 
Might  use  it  to  the  harm  of  any  one. 

And  never  could  undo  it : ask  no  more  : 

For  tho’  you  should  not  prove  it  upon  me, 
But  keep  that  oath  you  swore,  you  might, 
perchance. 

Assay  it  on  some  one  of  the  Table  Round, 
And  all  because  you  dream  they  babble  of 
you.” 

And  Vivien,  frowning  in  true  anger,  said : 

“ What  dare  the  full-fed  liars  say  of  me  ? 
They  ride  abroad  redressing  human  vyrongs  ! 
They  sit  with  knife  in  meat  and  wine  in  horn. 
They  bound  to  holy  vows  of  chastity  ! 

Were  I not  woman,  I could  tell  a tale. 

But  you  are  man,  you  well  can  understand 
The  shame  that  cannot  be  explain’d  for 
shame. 

Not  one  of  all  the  drove  should  touch  me  : 
swine  ! ” 

Then  answer’d  Merlin  careless  of  her 
words, 

“ You  breathe  but  accusation  vast  and  vague. 
Spleen-born,  I think,  and  proofless.  If  you 
know. 

Set  up  the  charge  you  know,  to  stand  or  fall !” 

And  Vivien  answer’d,  frowning  wrathfully  : 
“ O ay,  what  say  ye  to  Sir  Valence,  him 
Whose  kinsman  left  him  watcher  o’er  his 
wife 

And  tw'o  fair  babes,  and  went  to  distant  lands; 
Was  one  year  gone,  and  on  returning  found 
Not  two  but  three  : there  lay  the  reckling, 
one 

But  one  hour  old  I What  said  the  happy 
sire  "i 

A seven  months’  babe  had  been  a truer  gift. 
Those  twelve  sweet  moons  confused  his  fa- 
therhood ! ” 

Then  answer’d  Merlin  : “ Nay,  I know  the 
tale. 

Sir  Valen'-e  wedded  with  an  outland  dame  : 
Some  cause  had  kept  him  sunder’d  from  his 
wife  : 


One  child  they  had ; it  lived  with  her : she 
died  : 

His  kinsman  travelling  on  his  owm  affair 
Was  charged  by  Valence  to  bring  home  the 
child. 

He  brought,  not  found  it  therefore  : take  the 
truth.” 

“ O ay,”  said  Vivien,  “ overtrue  a tale. 
What  say  ye  then  to  sweet  Sir  Sagramore, 
That  ardent  man  ? ‘ to  pluck  the  flower  in 
season ’ ; 

So  says  the  song,  ‘ I trow  it  is  no  treason.’ 

0 Master,  shall  we  call  him  overquick 

To  crop  his  own  sweet  rose  before  the  hour  ? ” 

And  Merlin  answer’d  : “ Overquick  are 
you 

To  catch  a lothly  plume  fall’n  from  the  wing 
Of  that  foul  bird  of  rapine  whose  whole  prey 
Is  man’s  good  name  : he  never  wronged  his 
bride. 

1 know  the  tale.  An  angry  gust  of  wind 
Puff’d  out  his  torch  among  the  myriad-room’d 
And  many-corridor’d  complexities 

Of  Arthur’s  palace  : then  he  found  a door 
And  darkling  felt  the  sculptured  ornament 
That  wreathen  round  it  made  it  seem  his 
own  ; 

And  wearied  out  made  for  the  couch  and 
slept, 

A stainless  man  beside  a stainless  maid  ; 

And  either  slept,  nor  knew  of  other  there  ; 
Till  the  high  dawn  piercing  the  royal  rose 
In  Arthur’s  casement  glimmer’d  chastely 
down. 

Blushing  upon  them  blushing,  and  at  once 
He  rose  without  a word  and  parted  from  her  : 
But  when  the  thing  was  blazed  about  the 
court. 

The  brute  world  howling  forced  them  into 
bonds. 

And  as  it  chanced  they  are  happy,  being 
pure.” 

“ O ay,”  said  Vivien,  “ that  were  likely 
too. 

What  say  ye  then  to  fair  Sir  Percivale 
And  of  the  horrid  foulness  that  he  wrought. 
The  saintly  youth,  the  spotless  lamb  of  Christ, 
Or  some  black  wether  of  St.  Satan’s  fold. 
What,  in  the  precincts  of  the  chapel -yard. 
Among  the  knightly  brasses  of  the  graves, 
And  by  the  cold  Hie  Jacets  of  the  dead  ! ” 

And  Merlin  answer’d,  careless  of  her 
charge  : 

“ A sober  man  is  Percivale  and  pure  ; 

But  once  in  life  was  fluster’d  with  new  wine  ; 
Then  paced  for  coolness  in  the  chapel-yard, 
Where  one  of  Satan’s  shepherdesses  caught 
And  meant  to  stamp  him  with  her  master’s 
mark  ; 

And  that  he  sinn’d,  is  not  believable  ; 

For,  look  upon  his  face  ! — but  if  he  sinn’d. 
The  sin  that  practice  burns  into  the  blood. 
And  not  the  one  dark  hour  which  brings  re- 
morse, 


VIVIEN. 


288 

Will  brand  us,  after,  of  whose  fold  we  be  : 

Or  else  were  he,  the  holy  king,  whose  hymns 
Are  chanted  in  the  minster,  worse  than  all. 
But  is  your  spleen  froth’d  out,  or  have  ye 
more  ? ” 

And  Vivien  answer’d  frowning  yet  in  wrath: 
“ O ay  ; what  say  ye  to  Sir  Lancelot,  friend  } 
Traitor  or  true  1 that  commerce  with  the 
Queen, 

I ask  you,  is  it  clamor’d  by  the  child, 

Or  whisper’d  in  the  corner.^  do  you  know  it  ? ” 

To  which  he  answer’d  sadly : “ Yea,  I 
know  it. 

Sir  Lancelot  went  ambassador,  at  first. 

To  fetch  her,  and  she  took  him  for  the  King  ; 
So  fixt  her  fancy  on  him  ; let  him  be. 

But  have  you  no  one  word  of  loyal  praise 
For  Arthur,  blameless  King  and  stainless 
man  ? ” 

She  answer’d  with  a low  and  chuckling 
laugh  : 

“ Him  ? is  he  a man  at  all,  who  knows  and 
winks? 

Sees  what  his  fair  bride  is  and  does,  and 
winks? 

By  which  the  good  king  means  to  blind  him- 
self, 

And  blinds  himself  and  all  the  Table  Round 
To  all  the  foulness  that  they  work.  Myself 
Could  call  him  (were  it  not  for  womanhood) 
The  pretty,  popular  name  such  manhood 
earns. 

Could  call  him  the  main  cause  of  all  their 
crime ; 

Yea,  were  he  not  crown’d  king,  coward,  and 
fool.” 

Then  Merlin  to  his  own  heart,  loathing, 
said  : 

“O  true  and  tender  ! O my  liege  and  king  ! 

O selfless  man  and  stainless  gentleman. 

Who  wouldst  against  thine  own  eye-witness 
fain 

Have  all  men  true  and  leal,  all  women  pure  ; 
How,  in  the  mouths  of  base  interpreters, 
From  over-fineness  not  intelligible 
To  things  with  every  sense  as  false  and  foul 
As  the  poached  filth  that  floods  the  middle 
street. 

Is  thy  white  blamelessness  accounted  blame!” 

But  Vivien  deeming  Merlin  overborne 
By  instance,  recommenced,  and  let  her 
tongue 

Rage  like  a fire  among  the  noblest  names, 
Polluting,  and  imputing  her  whole  self, 
Defaming  and  defacing,  till  she  left 
Not  even  Lancelot  brave,  nor  Galahad  clean. 

Her  words  had  issue  other  than  she  will’d. 
He  dragg’d  his  eyebrow  bushes  down,  and 
made 

A snowy  penthouse  for  his  hollow  eyes. 

And  mutter’d  in  himself,  “Tell  her  the 
charm  ! 


So,  if  she  had  it,  would  she  rail  on  me 
To  snare  the  next,  and  if  she  have  it  not, 

So  will  she  rail.  What  did  the  wanton  say  ? 
‘Not  mount  as  high  ’ ; we  scarce  can  sink  as 
low  : 

For  men  at  most  differ  as  Heaven  and  earth,- 
But  women,  worst  and  best,  as  Heaven  and 
Hell. 

I know  the  Table  Round,  my  friends  of  old; 
All  brave,  and  many  generous,  and  some 
chaste. 

I think  she  cloaks  Uie  wounds  of  loss  witK 
lies  ; 

I do  believe  she  tempted  them  and  fail’d, 

She  is  so  bitter  : for  fine  plots  may  fail, 

Tho’  harlots  paint  their  talk  as  well  as  face 
With  colors  of  the  heart  that  are  not  theirs. 

I will  not  let  her  know  : nine  tithes  of  times 
Face  flatterers  and  backbiters  are  the  same. 
And  they,  sweet  soul,  that  most  impute  a 
a crime 

Are  pronest  to  it,  and  impute  themselves, 
Wanting  the  mental  rage  ; or  low  desire 
Not  to  feel  lowest  makes  them  level  all : 

Yea,  they  would  pare  the  mountain  to  the 
plain, 

To  leave  an  equal  baseness ; and  in  this 
Are  harlots  like  the  crowd,  that  if  they  find 
Some  stain  or  blemish  in  a name  of  note. 

Not  grieving  that  their  greatest  are  so  small. 
Inflate  themselves  with  some  insane  de- 

And  judge  all  nature  from  her  feet  of  <flay, 
Without  the  will  to  lift  their  eyes,  and  see 
Her  godlike  head  crown’d  with  spiritual  fire, 
And  touching  other  worlds.  I am  weary  of 
her.” 

He  spoke  in  words  part  heard,  in  whispers 
part. 

Half-suffocated  in  the  hoary  fell 
And  many-winter’d  fleece  of  throat  and  chin. 
But  Vivien,  gathering  somewhat  of  his  mood. 
And  hearing  “harlot”  mutter’d  twice  or 
thrice, 

Leapt  from  her  session  on  his  lap,  and  stood 
Stiff  as  a viper  frozen  : loathsome  sight, 

How  from,  the  rosy  lips  of  life  and  love. 
Flash’d  the  bare-grinning  skeleton  of  death  1 
White  was  her  cheek ; sharp  breaths  of  an- 
ger puff’d 

Her  fairy  nostril  out ; her  hand  half-clench’d 
Went  faltering  sideways  downward  to  her 
belt. 

And  feeling  ; had  she  found  a dagger  there 
(For  in  a wink  the  false  love  turns  to  hate) 
She  would  have  stabb’d  him ; but  she  found 
it  not : 

His  eye  was  calm,  and  suddenly  she  took 
To  bitter  weeping  like  a beaten  child, 

A long,  long  weeping,  not  consolable. 

Then  her  false  voice  made  way  broken  with 
sobs. 

■ “ O crueller  than  was  ever  told  in  tale, 

Or  sung  in  song  ! O vainly  lavish’d  love  ! 

O cruel,  there  was  nothing  wild  or  strange. 

Or  seeming  shameful,  for  what  shame  in  love, 


“ She  ceased,  and  made  her  lithe  arm  round  his  neck 
Tighten,  and  then  drew  back,  and  let  her  eyes 
Speak  for  her.” 


X 


/ 


VIVIEN.  189 


So  love  be  true,  and  not  as  3'ours  is— nothing 
Poor  Vivien  had  not  done  to  win  his  trust 
Who  call’d  her  what  he  call’d  her — all  her 
crime, 

All — all — the  wish  to  prove  him  wholly  hers.” 

She  mused  a little,  and  then  clapt  her 
hands 

Together  with  a wailing  shriek,  and  said : 

‘‘  Stabb’d  through  the  heart’s  affections  to 
the  heart  ! 

Seeth’d  like  the  kid  in  its  own  mother’s 
milk  ! 

Kill’d  with  a word  worse  than  a life  of  blows  ! 
I thought  that  he  was  gentle,  being  great : 

0 God,  that  I had  loved  a smaller  man  ! 

1 should  have  found  in  him  a greater  heart. 
O,  I,  that  flattering  my  true  passion,  saw 
The  knights,  the  court,  the  king,  dark  in 

your  light. 

Who  loved  to  make  men  darker  than  they  are, 
Because  of  that  high  pleasure  which  I had 
To  seat  you  sole  upon  my  pedestal 
Of  worship  — I am  answer’d,  and  henceforth 
The  course  of  life  that  seem’d  so  flowery  to 
me 

With  you  for  guide  and  master,  only  you. 
Becomes  the  sea-cliff  pathway  broken  short, 
And  ending  in  a ruin  — nothing  left. 

But  into  some  low  cave  to  crawl,  and  there, 
If  the  wolf  spare  me,  weep  my  life  away. 
Kill’d  with  inutterable  unkindliness.” 

She  paused,  she  turn’d  away,  she  hung  her 
head. 

The  snake  of  gold  slid  from  her  hair,  the 
braid 

Slipt  and  uncoil’d  Itself,  she  wept  afresh. 

And  the  dark  wood  grew  darker  toward  the 
storm 

In  silence,  while  his  anger  slowly  died 
Within  him,  till  he  let  his  wisdom  go 
For  ease  of  heart,  and  half  believed  her  true  : 
Call’d  her  to  shelter  in  the  hollow  oak, 

” Come  from  the  storm,”  and  having  no 
reply. 

Gazed  at  the  heaving  shoulder,  and  the  face 
^and-hidden,  as  for  utmost  grief  or  shame  ; 
Then  thrice  essay’d,  by  tenderest-touching 
terms 

To  sleek  her  ruffled  peace  of  mind,  in  vain. 
At  last  she  let  herself  be  conquer’d  by  him. 
And  as  the  cageling  newly  flown  returns. 

The  seeming-injured  simple-hearted  thing 
Came  to  her  old  perch  back,  and  settled 
there. 

There  while  she  sat,  half-falling  from  his 
knees. 

Half-nestled  at  his  heart,  and  since  he  saw 
The  slow  tear  creep  from  her  closed  eyelid 
yet. 

About  her,  more  in  kindness  than  in  love. 
The  gentle  wizard  cast  a shielding  arm. 

But  ^e  dislink’d  herself  at  once  and  rose. 
Her  arms  upon  her  breast  across,  and  stood 
A virtuous  gentlewoman  deeply  wrong’d. 
Upright  and  flush’d  before  him ; then  she 
said : 


“There  must  be  now  no  passages  of  love 
Betwixt  us  twain  henceforward  evermore. 
Since,  if  I be  what  I am  grossly  call’d. 

What  should  be  granted  which  your  own 
gross  heart 

Would  reckon  worth  the  taking?  I will  go. 
In  truth,  but  one  thing  now  — better  have 
died 

Thrice  than  have  ask’d  it  once  — could  make 
me  stay  — 

That  proof  of  trust  — so  often  asked  in  vain  ! 
How  justly,  after  that  vile  term  of  yours, 

I find  with  grief!  I might  believe  you  then. 
Who  knows?  once  more.  O,  what  was  once 
to  me 

Mere  matter  of  the  fancy,  now  has  grown 
The  vast  necessity  of  heart  and  life. 

Farew'ell : think  kindly  of  me,  for  I fear 
My  fate  or  fault,  omitting  gayer  youth 
For  one  so  old,  must  be  to  love  you  still. 

But  ere  1 leave  you  let  me  swear  once  more 
That  if  I schemed  against  your  peace  in  this. 
May  yon  just  heaven,  that  darkens  o’er  me, 
send 

One  flash,  that,  missing  all  things  else,  may 
make 

My  scheming  brain  a cinder,  if  I lie.” 

Scarce  had  she  ceased,  when  out  of  heaven 
a bolt 

(For  now  the  storm  was  close  above  them) 
struck. 

Furrowing  a giant  oak,  and  javelining 
With  darted  spikes  and  splinters  of  the  wood 
The  dark  earth  round.  He  raised  his  eyes 
->and  saw 

The  tree  that  shone  white-listed  thro’  the 
gloom. 

But  Vivien,  fearing  heaven  had  heard  her 
oath, 

And  dazzled  by  the  livid-flickering  fork. 

And  deafen’d  with  the  stammering  cracks 
and  claps 

That  follow’d,  flying  back  and  crying  out, 
“O  Merlin,  tho’  you  do  not  love  me,  save. 
Yet  save  me  ! ” clung  to  him  and  hugg’d 
him  close : 

And  call’d  him  dear  protector  in  her  fright. 
Nor  yet  forgot  her  practice  in  her  fright. 

But  wrought  upon  his  mood  and  hugg’d  him 
close. 

The  pale  blood  of  the  wizard  at  her  touch 
Took  gayer  colors,  like  an  opal  warm’d 
She  blamed  herself  for  telling  hearsay  tales  : 
She  shook  from  fear,  and  for  her  fault  she 
wept 

Of  petulancy  ; she  call’d  him  lord  and  liege, 
Her  seer,  her  bard,  her  silver  star  of  eve, 

Her  God,  her  Merlin,  the  one  passionate 
love 

Of  her  whole  life  ; and  ever  overhead 
Bellow’d  the  tempest,  and  the  rotten  branch 
Snapt  in  the  rushing  of  the  river-rain 
Above  them ; and  in  change  of  glare  and 
gloom 

Her  eyes  and  neck  flittering  went  and  came ; 
Till  now  the  storm,  its  burst  of  passion  spent, 
Moaning  and  calling  out  of  other  lands, 


190 


ELAINE, 


Had  left  the  ravaged  woodland  yet  once  more 
To  peace  ; and  what  should  not  have  been 
had  been. 

For  Merlin,  overtalk’d  and  overworn, 

Had  yielded,  told  her  all  the  charm,  and 
slept. 

Then,  in  one  moment,  she  put  forth  the 
charm 

Of  w'oven  paces  and  of  w-aving  hands. 

And  in  the  hollow  oak  he  lay  as  dead. 

And  lost  to  life  and  use  and  name  and  fame. 

Then  crying  “ I have  made  his  glory  mine,” 
And  shrieking  out  “ O fool ! ” the  harlot 
leapt 

Adown  the  forest,  and  the  thicket  closed 
Behind  her,  and  the  forest  echo’d  “fool.” 


ELAINE. 

Elaine  the  fair,  Elaine  the  lovable, 
Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat, 

High  in  her  chamber  up  a tower  to  the  east 
Guarded  the  sacred  shield  of  Lancelot ; 
Which  first  she  placed  where  morning’s 
earliest  ray 

Might  strike  it,  and  awake  her  with  the 
gleam ; 

Then  fearing  rust  or  soilure,  fashion’d  for  it 
A case  of  silk,  and  braided  thereupon 
All  the  devices  blazon’d  on  the  shield 
In  their  own  tinct,  and  added,  of  her  wit, 

A border  fantasy  of  branch  and  flower. 

And  yellow-throated  nestling  in  the  nest. 

Nor  rested  thus  content,  but  day  by  day 
Leaving  her  household  and  good  father 
climb’d 

That  eastern  tower,  and  entering  barr’d  her 
door, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  read  the  naked  shield. 
Now  guess’d  a hidden  meaning  in  his  arms, 
Now  made  a pretty  history  to  herself 
Of  every  dint  a sword  had  beaten  in  it. 

And  ever5r  scratch  a lance  had  made  upon  it. 
Conjecturing  when  and  where : this  cut  is 
fresh  ; 

That-  ten  years  back  ; this  dealt  him  at  Caer- 
lyle  ; 

That  at  Caerleon  ; this  at  Camelot : 

And  ah,  God’s  mercy,  what  a stroke  was 
there  ! 

And  here  a thrust  that  might  have  kill’d,  but 
God 

Broke  the  strong  lance,  and  roll’d  his  enemy 
down. 

And  saved  him  : so  she  lived  in  fantasy. 

How  came  the  lily  maid  by  that  good 
shield 

Of  Lancelot,  she  that  knew  not  ev’n  his 
name  ? 

He  left  it  with  her,  when  he  rode  to  tilt 
For  the  great  diamond  in  the  diamond  jousts. 
Which  Arthur  had  ordain’d,  and  by  that 
name 

Had  named  them,  since  a diamond  was  the 
prize. 


For  Arthur  when  none  knew  from  whence 
he  came, 

Long  ere  the  people  chose  him  for  their 
king. 

Roving  the  trackless  realms  of  Lyonnesse, 
Had  found  a glen,  gray  boulder  and  black 
tarn. 

A horror  lived  about  the  tarn,  and  clave 
Like  its  own  mists  to  all  the  mountain  side: 
For  here  two  brothers,  one  a king,  had  met 
And  fought  together  : but  their  names  were 
lost. 

And  each  had  slain  his  brother  at  a blow, 
And  down  they  fell  and  made  the  glen 
abhorr’d  : 

And  there  they  lay  till  all  their  bones  were 
bleached. 

And  lichen’d  into  color  with  the  crags  : 

And  he  that  once  was  king  had  on  a crown 
Of  diamonds,  one  in  front,  and  four  aside. 
And  Arthur  came,  and  laboring  up  the  pass 
All  in  a misty  moonshine,  unawares 
Had  trodden  that  crown’d  skeleton,  and  the 
skull 

Brake  from  the  nape,  and  from  the  skull  the 
crown 

Roll’d  into  light,  and  turning  on  its  rims 
Fled  like  a glittering  rivulet  to  the  tarn  : 

And  down  the  shingly  scaur  he  plunged,  and 
caught. 

And  set  it  on  his  head,  and  in  his  heart 
Heard  murmurs,  “ Lo,  thou  likewise  shalt  be 
king.” 

Thereafter,  when  a king,  he  had  the  gems 
Pluck’d  from  the  crown,  and  show'’d  them  to 
his  knights, 

Saying  “ These  jewels,  whereupon  I chanced 
Divinely,  are  the  kingdom’s,  not  the  king’s  — 
For  public  use  : henceforward  let  there  be. 
Once  every  year,  a joust  for  one  of  these  : 

For  so  by  nine  years’  proof  we  needs  must 
learn 

Which  is  our  mightiest,  and  ourselves  shall 
grow 

In  use  of  arms  and  manhood,  till  we  drive 
The  Heathen,  who,  some  say,  shall  rule  the 
land 

Hereafter,  which  God  hinder.”  Thus  he* 
spoke : 

And  eight  years  past,  eight  jousts  had  been, 
and  still 

Had  Lancelot  won  the  diamond  of  the  year, 
With  purpose  to  present  them  to  the  Queen, 
When  all  w^ere  won  : but  meaning  all  at  once 
To  snare  her  royal  fancy  with  a boon 
Worth  half  her  realm,  had  never  spoken  word. 

Now  for  the  central  diamond  and  the  last 
And  largest,  Arthur,  holding  then  his  court 
Hard  on  the  river  nigh  the  place  which  now 
Is  this  W'orld’s  hugest,  let  proclaim  a joust 
At  Camelot,  and  when  the  time  drew  nigh 
Spake  (for  she  had  been  sick)  to  Guinevere, 

“ Are  you  so  sick,  my  Queen,  you  cannot 
move 

To  these  fair  jousts?”  “Yea,  lord,”  she 
said,  “you  know  it.” 


ELAINE. 


“Then  will  you  miss,”  he  answer’d,  “the 
great  deeds 

Of  Lancelot,  and  his  prowess  in  the  lists, 

A sight  you  love  to  look  on.”  And  the  Queen 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  they  dwelt  languidly 
On  Lancelot,  where  he  stood  beside  the 
King. 

He  thinking  that  he  read  her  meaning  there, 
“ Stay  with  me,  I am  sick  ; my  love  is  more 
Than  many  diamonds,”  yielded,  and  a heart, 
Love-loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen 
(However  much  he  yearn’d  to  make  complete 
The  tale  of  diamonds  for  his  destined  boon) 
Urged  him  to  speak  against  the  truth,  and  .say 
“ Sir  King,  mine  ancient  wound  is  hardly 
whole, 

And  lets  me  from  the  saddle  ” ; and  the  King 
Glanced  first  at  him,  then  her,  and  went  his 
way. 

No  sooner  gone  than  suddenly  she  began  : 

“ To  blame,  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot,  much  to 
blame. 

Why  go  you  not  to  these  fair  jousts?  the 
knights 

Are  half  of  them  our  enemies,  and  the  crowd 
Will  murmur,  lo  the  shameless  ones,  who 
take 

Their  pastime  now  the  trustful  king  is  gone  ! ” 
Then  Lancelot,  vext  at  having  lied  in  vain  : 

“ Are  you  so  wise  ? you  were  not  once  so  wise, 
My  Queen,  that  summer,  when  you  loved  me 
first. 

Then  of  the  crowd  you  took  no  more  account 
Than  of  the  myriad  cricket  of  the  mead. 
When  its  own  voice  clings  to  each  blade  of 
grass. 

And  every  voice  is  nothing.  As  to  knights. 
Them  surely  can  I silence  with  all  ease. 

But  now  my  loyal  worship  is  allow’d 
Of  all  men  : many  a bard,  without  offence. 
Has  link’d  our  names  together  in  his  lay, 
Lancelot,  the  flower  of  bravery,  Guinevere, 
The  pearl  of  beauty  : and  our  knights  at  feast 
Have  pledged  us  in  this  union,  while  the  King 
Would  listen  smiling.  How  then?  is  there 
more  ? 

Has  Arthur  spoken  aught  ? or  would  yourself, 
Now  weary  of  my  service  and  devoir, 
Henceforth  be  truer  to  your  faultless  lord?” 

She  broke  into  a little  scornful  laugh. 

“ Arthur,  my  lord,  Arthur,  the  faultless  King, 
That  passionate  perfection,  my  good  lord  — 
But  who  can  gaze  upon  the  Sun  in  heaven? 
He  never  spake  word  of  reproach  to  me. 

He  never  had  a glimpse  of  mine  untruth. 

He  cares  not  for  me  : only  here  to-day 
There  gleam’d  a vague  suspicion  in  his  eyes  : 
Some  meddling  rogue  has  tamper’d  with 
him — else 

Rapt  in  this  fancy  of  his  Table  Round, 

And  swearing  men  to  vows  impossible. 

To  make  them  like  himself : but,  friend,  tome 
He  is  all  fault  who  hath  no  fault  at  all  : 

F or  who  loves  me  must  have  a touch  of  earth  ; 
The  low'sun  makes  the  color  : I am  vours. 
Not  Arthur’s,  as  you  know,  save  by  the  bond, 


191 

And  therefore  hear  my  words : go  to  the 
jousts : 

The  tiny-trumpeting  gnat  can  break  our 
dream 

When  sweetest  ; and  the  vermin  voices  here 
May  buzz  so  loud  — we  scorn  them,  but  they 
sling.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights, 

“ And  with  what  face,  after  my  pretext 
made. 

Shall  I appear,  O Queen,  at  Camelot,  I 
Before  a king  who  honors  his  own  word. 

As  if  it  were  his  God’s  ? ” 

“ Yea,”  said  the  Queen, 
“ A moral  child  without  the  craft  to  rule. 
Else  had  he  not  lost  me  : but  listen  to  me. 
If  I must  find  you  wit  : we  hear  it  said 
That  men  go  down  before  your  spear  at  a 
touch 

But  knowing  you  are  Lancelot  ; your  great 
name. 

This  conquers : hide  it  therefore  ; go  un- 
know'n  : 

Win  ! by  this  kiss  you  will : and  our  true 
king 

Will  then  allow  your  pretext,  O my  knight. 
As  all  for  glory  ; for  to  speak  him  true. 

You  know  right  well,  how  meek  so  e’er  he 
seem. 

No  keener  hunter  after  glory  breathes. 

He  loves  it  in  his  knights  more  than  him- 
self: 

They  prove  to  him  his  work  : win  and  re- 
turn.” 

Then  got  Sir  Lancelot  suddenly  to  horse. 
Wroth  at  himself : not  willing  to  be  known. 
He  left  the  barren-beaten  thoroughfare, 
Chose  the  green  path  that  show’d  the  rarer 
foot. 

And  there  among  the  solitary  downs. 

Full  often  lost  in  fancy,  lost  his  way  ; 

Till  as  he  traced  a faintly-shadow’d  track, 
That  all  in  loops  and  links  among  the 
dales 

Ran  to  the  Castle  of  Astolat,  he  saw 
Fired  from  the  west,  far  on  a hill,  the  towers. 
Thither  he  made  and  wound  the  gateway 
horn. 

Then  came  an  old,  dumb,  myriad-wrinkled 
man, 

Who  let  him  into  lodging  and  disarm’d. 

And  I.ancelot  marvell’d  at  the  wordless 
man  : 

And  issuing  found  the  Lord  of  Astolat 
With  two  strong  sons.  Sir  Torre  and  Sir 
Lavaine, 

Moving  to  meet  him  in  the  castle  court ; 

And  close  behind  them  stept  the  lily  maid 
Elaine,  his  daughter  ; mother  of  the  house 
There  was  not : some  light  jest  among  them 
rose 

With  laughter  dying  down  as  the  great 
knight 

Approach’d  them  : then  the  Lord  of  Asto- 
lat, 


xg2 


ELAINE.  ^ 


“Whence  comest  thou,  my  guest,  and  by 
what  name 

Livest  between  the  lips  ? for  by  thy  state 
And  presence  1 might  guess  thee  chief  of 
those. 

After  the  king,  who  eat  in  Arthur’s  halls. 
Him  have  I seen : the  rest,  his  Table 
Round, 

Known  as  they  are,  to  me  they  are  un- 
known.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  the  chief  of 
knights, 

“ Known  am  I,  and  of  Arthur’s  hall,  and 
known, 

What  I by  mere  mischance  have  brought,  my 
shield. 

But  since  I go  to  joust  as  one  unknown 
At  Camelot  for  the  diamond,  ask  me  not. 
Hereafter  you  shall  know  me  — and  the 
shield  — 

I pray  you  lend  me  one,  if  such  you  have. 
Blank,  or  at  least  with  some  device  not 
mine.” 

Then  said  the  Lord  of  Astolat,  “ Here  is 
Torre’s  : 

Hurt  in  his  first  tilt  was  my  son,  Sir  Torre. 
And,  so,  God  wot,  his  shield  is  blank 
enough. 

His  you  can  have.”  Then  added  plain  Sir 
Torre, 

“ Yea  since  I cannot  use  it,  you  may  have 
it.” 

Here  laugh’d  the  father,  saying,  “ Fie,  Sir 
Churl, 

Is  that  an  answer  for  a noble  knight? 

Allow  him  : but  Lavaine  my  younger  here. 
He  is  so  full  of  lustihood,  he  will  ride 
Joust  for  it,  and  win,  and  bring  it  in  an 
hour 

And  set  it  in  this  damsel’s  golden  hair. 

To  make  her  thrice  as  wilful  as  before.” 

“Nay,  father,  nay,  good  father,  shame  me 
not 

Before  this  noble  knight,”  said  young  La- 
vaine, 

“For  nothing.  Surely  I but  play’d  on 
Torre  : 

He  seem’d  so  sullen,  vext  he  could  not  §o : 
A jest,  no  more  : for,  knight,  the  maiden 
dreamt 

That  some  one  put  this  diamond  in  her  hand, 
And  that  it  was  too  slippery  to  be  held. 

And  slipt  and  fell  into  some  pool  or  stream. 
The  castle-well,  belike  : and  then  I said^ 
That  if  I went  and  if  I fought  and  won  it 
(But  all  was  jest  and  joke  among  ourselves) 
Then  must  she  keep  it  safelier.  All  was 
jest. 

But  father  give  me  leave,  an  if  he  will. 

To  ride  to  Camelot  with  this  noble  knight : 
Win  shall  I not,  but  do  my  best  to  win  : 
Young  as  I am,  yet  would  I do  my  best.” 

“ So  you  will  grace  me,”  answer’d  Lance- 

lot, 


Smiling  a moment,  “ with  your  fellowship 
O’er  these  waste  downs  whereon  I lost  my- 
self. 

Then  were  I glad  of  you  as  guide  and  friend  ; 
And  you  shall  win  this  diamond  — as  I 
hear. 

It  is  a fair  large  diamond,  — if  you  may. 

And  yield  it  to  this  maiden,  if  you  will.” 

“ A fair  large  diamond,”  added  plain  Sir 
Torre, 

“ Such  be  for  Queens  and  not  for  simple 
maids.” 

Then  she,  who  held  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground, 

Elaine,  and  heard  her  name  so  tost  about, 
Flush’d  slightly  at  the  slight  disparagement 
Before  the  stranger  knight,  who,  looking  at 
her. 

Full  courtly,  yet  not  falsely,  thus  return’d  : 
“If  what  is  fair  be  but  for  what  is  fair. 

And  only  Queens  are  to  be  counted  so. 

Rash  were  my  judgment  then,  who  deem 
this  maid 

Might  wear  as  fair  a jewel  as  is  on  earth. 

Not  violating  the  bond  of  like  to  like.” 


He  spoke  and  ceased  : the  lily  maid 
Elaine, 

Won  by  the  mellow  voice  before  she  look’d. 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  read  her  lineaments. 
The  great  and  guilty  love  he  bare  the  Queen, 
In  battle  with  the  love  he  bare  his  lord. 

Had  marr’d  his  face,  and  mark’d  it  ere  his 
time. 

Another  sinning  on  such  heights  with  one, 
The  flower  of  all  the  west  and  all  the  world. 
Had  been  the  sleeker  for  it : but  in  him 
His  mood  was  often  like  a fiend,  and  rose 
And  drove  him  into  wastes  and  solitudes 
For  agony,  who  was  yet  a living  soul. 

Marr’d  as  he  was,  he  seem’d  the  goodliest 


man. 

That  ever  among  ladies  ate  in  Hall, 

And  noblest,  when  she  lifted  up  her  e3’^es. 
However  marr’d,  of  more  than  twice  her 


years. 

Seam’d  with  an  ancient  swordcut  on  the 
cheek. 

And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her 


eyes 

And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her 


doom. 


Then  the  great  knight,  the  darling  of  the 
court. 

Loved  of  the  loveliest,  into  that  rude  hall 

Stept  with  all  grace,  and  not  with  half  dis- 
dain 

Hid  under  grace,  as  in  a smaller  time. 

But  kindly  man  moving  among  his  kind  : 

Whom  they  with  meats  and  vintage  of  their 
best 

And  talk  and  minstrel  melody  entertain  d. 

And  much  they  ask’d  of  court  and  Tabic 
Round, 

And  ever  well  and  readily  answer’d  he  : 

But  Lancelot,  when  they  glanced  at  Guine- 
vere, 


ELAINE, 


193 


Suddenly  speaking  of  the  wordless  man, 
Heard  from  the  Baron  that,  ten  years  be- 
fore, 

The  heathen  caught  and  reft  him  of  his 
tongue. 

“ He  learnt  and  warn’d  me  of  their  fierce  de- 
sign 

Against  my  house,  and  him  they  caught  and 
maim’d  : 

But  I my  sons  and  little  daughter  fled 
From  bonds  or  death,  and  dwelt  among  the 
woods 

By  the  great  river  in  a boatman’s  hut. 

Dull  days  were  those,  till  our  good  Arthur 
broke 

The  Pagan  yet  once  more  on  Badon  hill.”^ 

“O  there,  good  Lord,  doubtless,”  Lavaine 
said,  rapt 

By  all  the  sweet  and  sudden  passion  of  youth 
Toward  greatness  in  its  elder,  “ you  have 
fought. 

O tell  us  ; for  we  live  apart,  you  know 
Of  Arthur’s  glorious  wars.”  And  Lancelot 
spoke 

And  answer’d  him  at  full,  as  having  been 
With  Arthur  in  the  fight  which  all  day  long 
Rang  by  the  white  mouth  of  the  violent 
Glem  ; 

And  in  the  four  wild  battles  by  the  shore 
Of  Duglas  ; that  on  Bassa  ; then  the  war 
That  thunder’d  in  and  out  the  gloomy  skirts 
Of  Celidon  the  forest ; and  again  ^ 

By  castle  Gurnion  where  the  glorious  King 
Had  on  his  cuirass  worn  our  Lady’s  Head, 
Carved  of  one  emerald,  centred  in  a sun 
Of  silver  rays,  that  lighten’d  as  he  breathed  ; 
And  at  Caerleon  had  he  help’d  his  lord. 
When  the  strong  neighings  of  the  wild  w'hite 
Horse 

Set  every  gilded  parapet  shuddering  ; 

And  up  in  Agned  Cathregonion  too. 

And  down  the  waste  sand-shores  of  Trath 
Treroit, 

Where  many  a heathen  fell ; and  on  the 
mount 

Of  Badon  I myself  beheld  the  King 
Charge  at  the  head  of  all  his  Table  Round, 
And  all  his  legions  crying  Christ  and  him, 
And  break  them;  and  I saw  him,  after,  stand 
High  on  a heap  of  slain,  from  spur  to  plume 
Red  as  the  rising  sun  with  heathen  blood. 
And  seeing  me,  with  a great  voice  he  cried, 

‘ They  are  broken,  they  are  broken  ’ for  the 
King, 

However  mild  he  seems  at  home,  nor  cares 
For  iriurnph  in  our  mimic  wars,  the  jousts  — 
For  if  his  own  knight  cast  him  down,  he 
laughs 

Saying,  his  knights  ar§,better  men  than  he  — 
Yet  in  this  heathen  war  the  fire  of  God 
Fills  him  ; I never  saw  his  like ; there  lives 
No  greater  leader.” 

While  he  utter’d  this. 
Low  to  her  own  heart  said  the  lily  maid, 

“ Save  your  great  self,  fair  lord  ” ; and  when 
he  fell 

From  talk  of  war  to  traits  of  pleasantry 


Being  mirthful  he  but  in  a stately  kind  — 

She  still  took  note  that  when  the  living  smile 
Died  from  his  lips,  across  him  came  a cloud 
Of  melancholy  severe,  from  which  again. 
Whenever  in  her  hovering  to  and  fro 
The  lily  maid  had  striven  to  make  him  cheer, 
There  brake  a sudden-beaming  tenderness 
Of  manners  and  of  nature  : and  she  thought 
That  all  was  nature,  all,  perchance,  for  her, 
And  all  night  long  his  face  before  her  lived, 
As  when  a painter,  poring  on  a face. 

Divinely  thro’  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face. 
The  shape  and  color  of  a mind  and  life, 

Lives  for  his  children,  ever  at  its  best 
And  fullest  ; so  the  face  before  her  lived. 
Dark-splendid,  speaking  in  the  silence,  full 
Of  noble  things,  and  held  her  from  her  sleep. 
Till  rathe  she  rose,  half-cheated  in  the 
thought 

She  needs  must  bid  farewell  to  sweet 
Lavaine. 

First  as  in  fear,  step  after  step,  she  stole, 
Down  the  long  tower-stairs,  hesitating  : 
Anon,  she  heard  Sir  Lancelot  cry  in  the 
court, 

“This  shield,  my  friend,  where  is  it?”  and 
Lavaine 

Past  inward,  as  she  came  from  out  the  tower. 
There  to  his  proud  horse  Lancelot  turn’d, 
and  smooth’d 

The  glossy  shoulder,  humming  to  himself. 
Half-envious  of  the  flattering  hand,  she  drew 
Nearer  and  stood.  He  look’d,  and  more 
amazed 

Than  if  seven  men  had  set  upon  him,  saw 
The  maiden  standing  in  the  dewy  light. 

He  had  not  dreamed  she  was  so  beautiful. 
Then  came  on  him  a sort  of  sacred  fear. 

For  silenh  tho’  he  greeted  her,  she  stood 
Rapt  on  his  face  as  if  it  were  a God’s. 
Suddenly  flashed  on  her  a wild  desire, 

That  he  should  wear  her  favor  at  the  tilt 
She  braved  a riotous  heart  in  asking  for  it. 

“ Fair  lord,  whose  name  I know  not  — noble 
it  is, 

I well  believe,  the  noblest  — will  you  wear_ 
My  favor  at  this  tourney?”  “Nay,”  said 
he, 

“ Fair  lady,  since  I never  yet  have  worn 
Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists. 

Such  is  my  wont,  as  those,  who  know  me, 
know.” 

“ Yea,  so,”  she  answer’d  ; “ then  in  wearing 
mine 

Needs  must  be  lesser  likelihood,  noble  lord. 
That  those  who  know  should  know  you.” 
And  he  turn’d 

Her  counsel  up  and  down  within  his  mind. 
And  found  it  true,  and  answer’d,  “ True,  my 
child. 

Well,  I will  wear  it : fetch  it  out  to  me  : 
What  is  it?”  and  she  told  him  “a  red 
sleeve 

Broider’d  with  pearls,”  and  brought  it : then 
he  bound 

Her  token  on  his  helmet,  with  a smile 
Saying,  “ I never  yet  have  done  so  much 


ELAINE. 


194 

For  any  maiden  living,”  and  the  blood 
Sprang  to  her  face,  and  fill’d  her  with  de- 
light ; 

But  left  her  all  the  paler,  when  Lavaine 
Returning  brought  the  yet  unblazon’d  shield. 
His  brother’s  ; which  he  gave  to  Lancelot, 
Who  parted  with  his  own  to  fair  Elaine  ; 

“ Do  me  this  grace,  my  child,  to  have  my 
shield 

In  keeping  till  I come.”  “ A grace  to  me,” 
She  answer’d,  ‘‘twice  to-day.  I am  your 
Squire.” 

Whereat  Lavaine  said,  laughing,  “ Lily 
maid. 

For  fear  our  people  call  you  lily  maid 
In  earnest,  let  me  bring  your  color  back  ; 
Once,  twice,  and  thrice : now  get  you  hence 
to  bed  ” : 

So  kiss’d  her,  and  Sir  Lancelot  his  own 
hand, 

And  thus  they  moved  away : she  stay’d  a 
minute. 

Then  made  a sudden  step  to  the  gate,  and 
there  — 

Her  bright  hair  blown  about  the  serious  face 
Yet  rosy-kindled  with  her  brother’s  kiss  — 
Paused  in  the  gateway,  standing  by  the 
shield 

In  silence,  while  she  watch’d  their  arms  far- 
off 

Sparkle,  until  they  dipt  below  the  downs. 
Then  to  her  tower  she  climb’d,  and  took  the 
shield. 

There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy. 

Meanwhile  the  new  companions  past  away 
Far  o’er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless  downs. 
To  where  Sir  Lancelot  knew  there  lived  a 
knight 

Not  far  from  Camelot,  now  for  forty  years 
A hermit,  who  had  pray’d,  labor’d  and  pray’d 
And  ever  laboring  had  scoop’d  himself 
In  the  white  rock  a chapel  and  a hall 
On  massive  columns,  like  a shoreclifif  cave, 
And  cells  and  chambers  : all  were  fair  and 
dry  ; 

The  green  light  from  the  meadows  under- 
neath 

Struck  up  and  lived  along  the  milky  roofs ; 
And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And  poplars  made  a noise  of  falling  showers. 
And  thither  wending  there  that  night  they 
bode. 

But  when  the  next  day  broke  from  under- 
ground. 

And  shot  red  fire  and  shadows  thro’  the  cave. 
They  rose,  heard  mass,  broke  fast,  and  rode 
away  : 

Then  Lancelot  saying,  ‘‘  Hear,  but  hold  my 
name 

Hidden,  you  ride  with  Lancelot  of  the  Lake,” 
Abashed  Lavaine,  whose  instant  reverence. 
Dearer  to  true  young  hearts  than  their  own 
praise. 

But  left  him  leave  to  stammer,“  Is  it  indeed?  ” 
And  a^ter  muttering  ” the  great  Lancelot  ” 
At  last  he  got  his  breath  and  answer’d,  ” One, 


One  have  I seen  — that  other,  our  Here  Icrd, 
The  dread  Pendragon,  Britain’s  kingei  kings, 
Of  whom  the  people  talk  mysteriously, 

He  will  be  there  — then  were  I stricken  blind 
That  minute,  I might  say  that  1 had  seen.” 

So  spake  Lavaine,  and  when  they  reach’d 
the  lists 

By  Camelot  in  the  meadow,  let  his  eyes 
Run  thro’  the  peopled  gallery  which  half 
round 

Lay  like  a rainbow  fall’n  upon  the  grass. 
Until  they  found  the  clear-faced  King,  who 
sat 

Robed  in  red  samite,  easily  to  be  known. 
Since  to  his  crown  the  golden  dragon  clung. 
And  down  his  robe  the  dragon  w'rithed  in  gold. 
And  from  the  carven-work  behind  him  crept 
Two  dragons  gilded,  sloping  down  to  make 
Arms  for  his  chair,  while  all  the  rest  of  them 
Thro’  knots  and  loops  and  folds  innumer- 
able 

Fled  ever  thro’  the  wroodw’ork,  till  they  found 
The  new  design  wherein  they  lost  themselves. 
Yet  with  all  ease,  so  tender  was  the  wwk  : 
And,  in  the  costly  canopy  o’er  him  set. 
Blazed  the  last  diamond  of  the  nameless  king. 

Then  Lancelot  answer’d  young  Lavaine 
and  said, 

‘‘  Me  you  call  great : mine  is  the  firmer  seat, 
The  truer  lance  : but  there  is  many  a youth 
Now  crescent,  who  will  come  to  all  1 am 
And  overcome  it ; and  in  me  there  dwells 
No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  w'ell  I am  not  great : 
There  is  the  man.”  And  Lavaine  gaped  up- 
on him 

As  on  a thing  miraculous,  and  anon 
The  trumpets  blew  ; and  then  did  either  side. 
They  that  assailed,  and  they  that  held  the 
lists. 

Set  lance  in  rest,  strike  spur,  suddenly  move. 
Meet  in  the  midst,  and  there  so  furiously 
Shock,  that  a man  far-off  might  well  perceive. 
If  any  man  that  day  were  left  afield. 

The  hard  earth  shake,  and  a low  thunder  of 
arms. 

And  Lancelot  bode  a little,  till  he  saw 
Which  were  the  weaker  : then  he  hurl’d  into  it 
Against  the  stronger  : little  need  to  speak 
Of  Lancelot  in  his  glory  : King,  duke,  earl. 
Count,  baron  — w'hom  he  smote,  he  over- 
threw. 

But  in  the  field  were  Lancelot’s  kith  and 
kin. 

Ranged  with  the  Table  Round  that  held  the 
lists. 

Strong  men,  and  wrathful  that  a stranger 
knight 

Should  do  and  almost  overdo  the  deeds 
Of  Lancelot  ; and  one  said  to  the  other.  ” Lo  ! 
What  is  he?  I do  not  mean  the  force  alone, 
The  grace  and  versatility  of  the  man— ■ 

Is  it  not  Lancelot ! ” ‘‘  When  has  Lancelot 

worn 

Favor  of  any  lady  in  the  lists  ? 


Then  to  her  tower  she  climb’d,  and  took  the  shield, 
There  kept  it,  and  so  lived  in  fantasy.” 


1 


ELAINE. 


Not  such  his  wont,  as  we,  that  know  him, 
know.” 

“How  then?  who  then?”  a fury  seized  on 
them, 

A fiery  family  passion  for  the  name 
Of  Lancelot,  and  a glory  one  with  theirs. 
They  couch’d  their  spears  and  prick’d  their 
steeds  and  thus, 

Their  plumes  driv’n  backward  by  the  wind 
they  made 

In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a wild  wave  in  the  wild  North-sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears, 
with  all 

Its  stormy  crests  that  smote  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a bark,  and  overbears  the  bark. 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger,  and  a spear 
Down-glancing  lamed  the  charger, and  a spear 
Prick’d  sharply  his  own  cuirass,  and  the  head 
Pierced  thro’  his  side,  and  there  snapt,  and 
remain’d. 

Then  Sir  Lavaine  did  well  and  worship- 
fully ; 

He  bore  a knight  of  old  repute  to  the  earth, 
And  brought  his  horse  to  Lancelot  where  he 

. 

He  up  the  side,  sweating  with  agony,  got. 
But  thought  to  do  while  he  might  yet  endure 
And  being  lustily  holpen  by  the  rest. 

His  party,  — tho’  it  seemed  half-miracle 
To  those  he  fought  with  — drave  his  kith  and 
kin. 

And  all  the  Table  Round  that  held  the  lists. 
Back  to  the  barrier  ; then  the  heralds  blew 
Proclaiming  his  the  prize,  who  wore  the 
sleeve 

Of  scarlet,  and  the  pearls  ; and  all  the  knights 
His  party,  cried  “ Advance,  and  take  your 
prize 

The  diamond”  ; but  he  answer’d,  “Diamond 
me 

No  diamonds  ! for  God’s  love,  a little  air  I 
Prize  me  no  prizes,  for  my  prize  is  death  ! 
Hence  will  I and  I charge  you,  follow  me 
not.” 

He  spoke,  and  vanish’d  suddenly  from  the 
field 

With  young  Lavaine  into  the  poplar  grove. 
There  from  his  charger  down  he  slid,  and  sat. 
Gasping  to  Sir  Lavaine,  “ Draw  the  lance- 
head  ” : 

“ Ah,  my  sweet  lord.  Sir  Lancelot,”  said  La- 
vaine, 

I dread  me,  if  T draw  it,  you  will  die.” 

But  he,  “ I die  already  with  it : draw  — 
Draw  ” — and  Lavaine  drew,  and  that  other 
gave 

A marvellous  great  shriek  and  ghastly  groan. 
And  half  his  blood  burst  forth,  and  down  he 
sank 

For  the  pure  pain,and  wholly  swoon’d  away. 
Then  came  the  hermit  out  and  bare  him  in. 
There  stanch’d  his  wound ; and  there,  in 
daily  doubt 

Whether  to  live  or  die,  for  many  a week 


195 

Hid  from  the  wide  world’s  rumor  by  the 
grove 

Of  poplars  with  their  noise  of  falling  showers, 
And  ever-tremulous  aspen-trees,  he  lay. 

But  on  that  day  when  Lancelot  fled  the 
lists, 

His  party,  knights  of  utmost  North  and 
West, 

Lords  of  waste  marches,  kings  of  desolate 
isles. 

Came  round  their  great  Pendragon,  saying 
to  him, 

“ Lo,  Sire,  our  knight  thro’  whom  we  won 
the  day 

Hath  gone  sore  wounded,  and  hath  left  his 
prize 

Untaken,  crying  that  his  prize  is  death.” 
“Heaven  hinder,”  said  the  King,  “that 
such  an  one. 

So  great  a knight  as  we  have  seen  to-day  — 
He  seem’d  to  me  another  Lancelot  — 

Yea,  twenty  times  I thought  him  Lancelot  — 
He  must  not  pass  uncared  for.  Gawain,  rise. 
My  nephew,  and  ride  forth  and  find  the 
knight. 

Wounded  and  wearied,  needs  must  he  be 
near. 

T charge  you  that  you  get  at  once  to  horse. 
And,  knights  and  kings,  there  breathes  not 
one  of  you 

Will  deem  this  prize  of  ours  is  rashly  given  : 
His  prowess  was  too  wondrous.  We  will  do 
him 

No  customary  honor : since  the  knight 
Came  not  to  us,  of  us  to  claim  the  prize, 
Ourselves  will  send  it  after.  Wherefore  take 
This  diamond,  and  deliver  it,  and  return. 

And  bring  us  what  he  is  and  how  he  fares. 
And  cease  not  from  your  quest,  until  you 
find.” 

So  saying  from  the  carven  flower  above, 

To  which  it  made  a restless  heart,  he  took. 
And  gave,  the  diamond  ; then  from  where  he 
sat  _ 

At  Arthur’s  right,  with  smiling  face  arose, 
With  smiling  face  and  frowning  heart,  a Prince 
In  the  mid  might  and  flourish  of  his  May, 
Gawain,  surnamed  The  Courteous,  fair  and 
strong. 

And  after  Lancelot,  Tristram,  and  Geraint 
And  Lamorack,  a good  knight,  but  there-' 
withal 

Sir  Modred’s  brother,  of  a crafty  house. 

Nor  often  loyal  to  his  word,  and  now 
Wroth  that  the  king’s  command  to  sally  forth 
In  quest  of  whom  he  knew  not,  made  him 
leave 

The  banquet,  and  concourse  of  knights  and 
kings. 

So  all  in  wratl^he  got  to  horse  and 

While  Arthur  to  the  banquet,  dark  in  mood. 
Past,  thinking,  “ Is  it  Lancelot  who  has  come 
Despite  the  wound  he  spake  of,  all  for  gain 
Of  glory,  and  has  added  wound  to  wound. 


196 


ELAINE. 


And  ridd’n  away  to  die  ? ” So  fear’d  the 
King, 

And,  after  two  days’  tarriance  there,  return’d. 
Then  when  he  saw  the  Queen,  embracing, 
ask’d, 

“ Love,  are  you  yet  so  sick  ? ” “ Nay,  lord,” 
she  said. 

“ And  where  is  Lancelot  ? ” Then  the 
Queen  amazed, 

“Was  he  not  with  you?  won  he  not  your 
prize  ? ” 

“ Nay,  but  one  like  him.”  “ Why  that  like 
was  he.” 

And  when  the  King  demanded  how  she 
knew. 

Said,  “ Lord,  no  sooner  had  you  parted  from 
us. 

Than  Lancelot  told  me  of  a common  talk 
That  men  went  down  before  his  spear  at  a 
touch. 

But  knowing  he  was  Lancelot ; his  great 
name 

Conquer’d ; and  therefore  would  he  hide  his 
name 

From  all  men,  e’en  the  king,  and  to  this  end 
Had  made  the  pretext  of  a hindering  wound, 
That  he  might  joust  unknown  of  all,  and 
learn 

If  his  old  prowess  were  in  aught  decay’d  : 
And  added,  ‘ Our  true  Arthur,  w'hen  he 
learns. 

Will  well  allow  my  pretext,  as  for  gain 
Of  purer  glory.’  ” 

Then  replied  the  King  : 

“ Far  lovelier  in  our  Lancelot  had  it  been. 

In  lieu  of  idly  dallying  with  the  truth. 

To  have  trusted  me  as  he  has  trusted  you. 
Surely  his  king  and  most  familiar  friend 
Might  well  have  kept  his  secret.  True,  in- 
deed, 

Albeit  I know  my  knights  fantastical. 

So  fine  a fear  in  our  large  Lancelot 
Must  needs  have  moved  my  laughter : now 
remains 

But  little  cause  for  laughter  : his  own  kin  — 
111  news,  my  Queen,  for  all  w'ho  love  him, 
these  ! 

His  kith  and  kin,  not  knowing,  set  upon  him  ; 
So  that  he  went  sore  wounded  from  the  field  : 
Yet  good  news  too  : for  goodly  hopes  are 
mine 

That  Lancelot  is  no  more  a lonely  heart. 

He  wore,  against  his  wont,  upon  his  helm 
A sleeve  of  scarlet,  broidered  with  great 
pearls, 

Spme  gentle  maiden’s  gift.” 

“Yea,  lord,”  she  said, 
“ Your  hopes  are  mine,”  and  saying  that  she 
choked. 

And  sharply  turn’d  about  to  hide  her  face. 
Moved  to  her  chamber,  and  there  flung  her- 
self 

Down  on  the  great  King’s  couch,  and  writhed 
upon  it. 

And  clench’d  her  fingers  till  they  bit  the 
palm. 

And  shriek’d  out  “ traitor  ” to  the  unhearing 
wall, 


Then  flash’d  into  wild  tears,  and  rose  again. 
And  moved  about  her  palace,  proud  and  pale. 

Gawain  the  while  thro’  all  the  region  round 
Rode  with  his  diamond,  w'earied  of  the  quest. 
Touch’d  at  all  points,  except  the  poplar  grove. 
And  came  at  last,  tho’  late,  to  Astolat : 
Whom  glittering  in  enamell’d  arms  the  maid 
Glanced  at,  and  cried  “ What  news  from 
Camelot,  lord  ? 

What  of  the  knight  with  the  red  sleeve?” 
“ He  won.” 

“I  knew  it,”  she  said.  “But  parted  from 
the  jousts 

Hurt  in  the  side,”  whereat  she  caught  her 
breath. 

Thro’  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance 
go ; 

Thereon  she  smote  her  hand : wellnigh  she 
swoon’d : 

And  while  he  gazed  wonderingly  at  her, 
came 

The  lord  of  Astolat  out,  to  whom  the  Prince 
Reported  who  he  was,  and  on  what  quest 
Sent,  that  he  bore  the  prize  and  could  not 
find 

The  victor,  but  had  ridden  wildly  round 
To  seek  him,  and  was  wearied  of  the  search. 
To  whom  the  lord  of  Astolat,  “ Bide  with  us. 
And  ride  no  longer  wildly,  noble  Prince  ! 
Here  was  the  knight,  and  here  he  left  a shield; 
This  will  he  send  or  come  for  : furthermore 
Our  son  is  with  him ; we  shall  hear  anon. 
Needs  must  we  hear.”  To  this  the  cour- 
teous Prince 

Accorded  with  his  wonted  courtesy. 

Courtesy  with  a touch  of  traitor  in  it, 

And  stay’d  ; and  cast  his  eyes  on  fair  Elaine  : 
Where  could  be  found  face  daintier?  then 
her  shape 

F rom  forehead  down  to  foot  perfect  — again 
From  foot  to  forehead  exquisitely  turn’d  ; 
“Well  — if  I bide,  lo  ! this  wild  flower  for 
me  ! ” 

And  oft  they  met  among  the  garden  yews. 
And  there  he  set  himself  to  play  upon  her 
With  sallying  wit,  free  flashes  from  a height 
Above  her,  graces  of  the  court,  and  songs. 
Sighs,  and  slow  smiles,  and  golden  eloquence 
And  amorous  adulation,  till  the  maid 
Rebell’d  against  it,  saying  to  him,  “ Prince, 
O loyal  nephew  of  our  noble  King, 

Why  ask  you  not  to  see  the  shield  he  left. 
Whence  you  might  learn  his  name  ? Why 
slight  your  King, 

And  lose  the  quest  he  sent  you  on,  and  prove 
No  surer  than  our  falcon  yesterday. 

Who  lost  the  hern  we  slipt  him  at,  and  went 
To  all  the  winds  ? ” “ Nay,  by  mine  head,” 

said  he, 

“ I lose  it,  as  we  lose  the  lark  in  heaven, 

O damsel,  in  the  light  of  your  blue  eyes  : 

But  an  you  will  it  let  me  see  the  shield.” 
And  when  the  shield  was  brought,  and  Ga- 
wain saw 

Sir  Lancelot’s  azure  lions,  crown’d  with  gold. 
Ramp  in  the  field,  he  smote  his  thigh  and 
mock’d ; 


ELAINE. 


197 


Right  was  the  King  ! our  Lancelot ! that 
true  man  ! ” 

“ And  right  was  I,”  she  answer’d  merrily,  “I, 

Who  dream’d  my  knight  the  greatest  knight 
of  all.” 

“ And  if  / dream’d,”  said  Gawain,  “that  you 
love 

This  greatest  knight,  your  pardon ! lo,  you 
know  it  ! 

Speak  therefore : shall  I waste  myself  in 
vain  ? ” 


Full  simple  was  her  answer  : “ What  know  I ? 
My  brethren  have  been  all  my  fellowship, 
And  I,  when  often  they  have  talk’d  of  love. 
Wish’d  it  had  been  my  mother,  for  they 
talk’d, 

Meseem’d,  of  what  they  knew  not ; so  my- 
self— 

I know  not  if  I know  what  true  love  is. 

But  if  I know,  then,  if  I love  not  him, 
Methinks  there  is  none  other  I can  love.” 

“ Yea,  by  God’s  death,”  said  he,  “ you  love 
him  well. 

But  would  not,  knew  you  what  all  others* 
know. 

And  whom  he  loves.”  “So  be  it,”  cried 
Elaine, 

And  lifted  her  fair  face  and  moved  away  : 

But  he  pursued  her  calling,  “ Stay  a little  ! 
One  golden  minute’s  grace : he  wore  your 
sleeve : 

Would  he  break  faith  with  one  I may  not 
name  ? 

Must  our  true  man  change  like  a leaf  at  last? 
May  it  be  so?  why  then,  far  be  it  from  me 
To  cross  our  mighty  Lancelot  in  his  loves  ! 
And,  damsel,  for  I deem  you  know  full  well 
Where  your  great  knight  is  hidden,  let  me 
leave 

My  guest  with  you ; the  diamond  also  : here  ! 
For  if  you  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  give  it ; 
And  if  he  love,  it  will  be  sweet  to  have  it 
From  your  own  hand  ; and  whether  he  love 
or  not, 

A diamond  is  a diamond.  Fare  you  well 
A thousand  times  ! — a thousand  times  fare- 
well ! 

Yet,  if  he  love,  and  his  love  hold,  we  two 
May  meet  at  court  hereafter : there,  I think,  , 
So  you  will  learn  the  courtesies  of  the  court. 
We  two  shall  know  each  other.” 

Then  he  gave. 

And  slightly  kiss’d  the  hand  to  which  he 
gave. 

The  diamond,  and  all  wearied  of  the  quest 
Leapt  on  his  horse,  and  carolling  as  he  went 
A true-love  ballad,  lightly  rode  away. 


Thence  to  the  court  he  past ; there  told 
the  King 

What  the  King  knew,  “ Sir  Lancelot  is  the 
knight.” 

And  added,  “ Sire,  my  liege,  so  much  I 
learnt ; 

But  fail’d  to  find  him  tho’  I rode  all  round 

The  region  : but  I lighted  on  the  maid. 

Whose  sleeve  he  wore  ; she  loves  him  ; and 
to  her, 


Deeming  our  courtesy  is  the  truest  law, 

I gave  the  diamond  : she  will  render  it : 

For  by  mine  head  she  knows  his  hiding- 
place.” 

The  seldom-frowning  King  frown’d,  and 
replied, 

“ Too  courteous  truly  ! you  shall  go  no  more 
On  quest  of  mine,  seeing  that  you  forget 
Obedience  is  the  courtesy  due  to  kings.” 

He  spake  and  parted.  Wroth  but  all  in 
awe, 

For  twenty  strokes  of  the  blood,  without  a 
word. 

Linger’d  that  other,  staring  after  him  ; 

Then  shook  his  hair,  strode  off,  and  buzz’d 
abroad 

About  the  maid  of  Astolat,  and  her  love. 

All  ears  were  prick’d  at  once,  all  tongues 
were  loosed  : 

“ The  maid  of  Astolat  loves  Sir  Lancelot, 

Sir  Lancelot  loves  the  maid  of  Astolat.” 
Some  read  the  King’s  face,  some  the  Queen’s, 
and  all 

Had  marvel  what  the  maid  might  be,  but 
most 

Predoom’d  her  as  unworthy.  One  old  dame 
Came  suddenly  on  the  Queen  with  the  sharp 
news. 

She,  that  had  heard  the  noise  of  it  before. 
But  sorrowing  Lancelot  should  have  stoop’d 
so  low, 

Marr’d  her  friend’s  point  with  pale  tranquil- 
lity. 

So  ran  the  tale  like  fire  about  the  court, 

Fire  in  dry  stubble  a nine  days’  wonder  flared  : 
Till  ev’n  the  knights  at  banquet  twice  or  thrice 
Forgot  to  drink  to  Lancelot  and  the  Queen, 
And  pledging  Lancelot  and  the  lily  maid 
Smiled  at  each  other,  while  the  Queen  who 
sat 

With  lips  severely  placid  felt  the  knot 
Climb  in  her  throat,  and  with  her  feet  unseen 
Crush’d  the  wild  passion  out  against  the  floor 
Beneath  the  banquet,  where  the  meats  be- 
came 

As  wormwood,  and  she  hated  all  who  pledged. 

But  far  away  the  maid  in  Astolat, 

Her  guiltless  rival,  she  that  ever  kept 
The  one-day-seen  Sir  Lancelot  in  her  heart. 
Crept  to  her  father,  while  he  mused  alone. 
Sat  on  his  knee,  stroked  his  gray  face  and 
said, 

“ Father,  you  call  me  wilful,  and  the  fault 
Is  yours  who  let  me  have  my  will,  and  now, 
Sweet  father,  will  you  let  me  lose  my  wits  ? ” 
“ Nay,”  said  he,  “surely.”  “Wherefore  let 
me  hence,” 

She  answer’d,  “ and  find  out  our  dear  La- 
vaine.” 

“ You  will  not  lose  your  wits  for  dear  Lavaine  : 
Bide,”  answer’d  he:  “we  needs  must  hear 
anon 

Of  him,  and  of  that  other.”  “ Ay,”  she  said, 
“ And  of  that  other,  for  I needs  must  hence 
And  find  that  other,  whereso’er  he  be. 


ELAINE. 


19S 

And  with  mine  own  hand  give  his  diamond 
to  him, 

Lest  I be  found  as  faithless  in  the  quest 
As  yon  proud  Prince  who  left  the  quest  to 
me. 

Sweet  father,  I behold  him  in  my  dreams 
Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself, 
Death-pale,  for  lack  of  gentle  maiden’s  aid. 
The  gentler-born  the  maiden,  the  more 
bound. 

My  father,  to  be  sweet  and  serviceable 
I'o  noble  knights  in  sickness,  as  you  know. 
When  these  have  worn  their  tokens  : let  me 
hence 

I pray  you.”  Then  her  father  nodding  said, 
“Ay,  ay.  the  diamond:  wit  you  well,  my 
child. 

Right  fain  were  I to  learn  this  knight  were 
whole. 

Being  our  greatest : yea,  and  you  must  give 
it  — 

And  sure  I think  this  fruit  is  hung  too  high 
For  any  mouth  to  gape  for  save  a Queen’s  — 
Nay,  I mean  nothing  : so  then,  get  you  gone. 
Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go.” 

Lightly,  her  suit  allow’d,  she  slipt  away. 

And  while  she  made  her  ready  for  her  ride. 
Her  father’s  latest  word  humm’d  in  her  ear, 

“ Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  go,” 

And  changed  itself  and  echoed  in  her  heart, 
“ Being  so  very  wilful  you  must  die.” 

But  she  was  happy  enough  and  shook  it  off. 
As  we  shake  off  the  bee  that  buzzes  at  us  ; 
And  in  her  heart  she  answer’d  it  and  said, 

“ What  matter,  so  I help  him  back  to  life  ?” 
Then  far  away  with  good  Sir  Torre  for  guide 
Rode  o’er  the  long  backs  of  the  bushless 
downs 

To  Camelot,  and  before  the  city-gates 
Came  on  her  brother  with  a happy  face 
Making  a roan  horse  caper  and  curvet 
For  pleasure  all  about  a field  of  flowers  : _ 
Whom  when  she  saw,  “ Lavaine,”  she  cried, 
“ Lavaine, 

How  fares  my  lord  Sir  Lancelot?”  He 
amazed, 

“Torre  and  Elaine!  why  here?  Sir  Lance- 
lot ! 

How  know  you  my  lord’s  name  is  I.ancelot  ? ” 
But  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  her  tale. 
Then  turn’d  Sir  Torre,  and  being  in  his 
moods 

Left  them,  and  under  the  strange-statued 
gate, 

Where  Arthur’s  wars  were  render’d  mysti- 
cally. 

Past  up  the  still  rich  city  to  his  kin. 

His  own  far  blood,  which  dwelt  at  Camelot ; 
And  her  Lavaine  across  the  poplar  grove 
Led  to  the  caves  : there  first  she  saw  the 
casque 

Of  Lancelot  on  the  wall  : her  scarlet  sleeve, 
Tho’  carved  and  cut,  and  half  the  pearls 
away. 

Stream’d  from  it  still ; and  in  her  heart  she 
laugh’d, 

Because  he  had  not  loosed  it  from  his  helm. 


But  meant  once  more  perchance  to  tourney 
in  it. 

And  when  they  gain’d  the  cell  in  which  he 
slept, 

His  battle-writhen  arms  and  mighty  hands 
Lay  naked  on  the  wolfskin,  and  a dream 
Of  dragging  down  his  enemy  made  them 
move. 

Then  she  that  saw  him  lying  unsleek,  un- 
shorn. 

Gaunt  as  it  were  the  skeleton  of  himself. 
Utter’d  a little  tender  dolorous  cry. 

The  sound  not  wonted  in  a place  so  still 
Woke  the  sick  knight,  and  while  he  roll’d 
his  eyes 

^et  blank  from  sleep,  she  started  to  him, 
saying,, 

“Your  prize  the  diamond  sent  you  by  the 
King”: 

His  eyes  glisten’d  : she  fancied  “ is  it  for 
me?” 

And  when  the  maid  had  told  him  all  the  tale 
Of  King  and  Prince,  the  diamond  sent,  the 
quest 

Assign’d  to  her  not  worthy  of  it,  she  knelt 
Full  lowly  by  the  corners  of  his  bed, 

And  laid  the  diamond  in  his  open  hand.  _ 
Her  face  was  near,  and  as  we  kiss  the  clrild 
That  does  the  task  assign’d,  he  kiss’d  her 
face. 

At  once  she  slipt  like  water  to  the  floor. 

“ Alas,”  he  said,  “ your  ride  has  wearied  you. 
Rest  must  you  have.”  “No  rest  for  me,” 
she  said  ; 

“ Nay,  for  near  you,  fair  lord,  I am  at  rest.” 
What  might  she  mean  by  that?  his  large 
black  eyes. 

Yet  larger  thro’  his  leanness,  dwelt  upon  her. 
Till  all  her  heart’s  sad  secret  blazed  itself 
In  the  heart’s  colors  on  her  simple  face  ; 

And  Lancelot  look’d  and  was  perplext  in 
mind. 

And  being  weak  in  body  said  no  more  ; 

But  did  not  love  the  color ; woman’s  love. 
Save  one,  he  not  regarded,  and  so  turn’d 
Sighing,  and  feign’d  a sleep  until  he  slept. 

Then  rose  Elaine  and  glided  thro*  the 
fields. 

And  past  beneath  the  wildly-sculptured  gates 
Far  up  the  dim  rich  city  to  her  kin  : 

There  bode  the  night : but  woke  with  dawn, 
and  past 

Down  thro’  the  dim  rich  city  to  the  fields. 
Thence  to  the  cave  : so  day  by  day  she  past 
In  either  twilight  ghost-like  to  and  fro 
Gliding,  and  every  day  she  tended  him. 

And  likewise  many  a night : and  Lancelot 
Would,  tho’  he  call’d  his  wound  a little  hurt 
Whereof  he  should  be  quickly  whole,  at  times 
Brain-feverous  in  his  heat  and  agony,  seem 
Uncourteous,  even  he  : but  the  meek  maid 
Sweetly  forbore  him  ever,  being  to  him 
Meeker  than  any  child  to  a rough  nurse. 
Milder  than  any  mother  to  a sick  child, 

And  never  woman  yet,  since  man’s  first  fall. 
Did  kindlier  unto  man,  but  her  deep  love 
Upbore  her ; till  the  hermit,  skill’d  in  all 


ELAINE. 


199 


The  simples  and  the  science  of  that  time, 
Told  him  that  her  fine  care  had  saved  his 
life. 

And  the  sick  man  forgot  her  simple  blush, 
Would  call  her  friend  and  sister,  sweet 
Elaine, 

Would  listen  for  her  coming  and  regret 
Her  parting  step,  and  held  her  tenderly. 

And  loved  - her  with  all  love  except  the 
love 

Of  man  and  woman  when  they  love  their 
best 

Closest  and  sweetest,  and  had  died  the 
death 

In  any  knightly  fashion  for  her  sake. 

And  peradventure  had  he  seen  her  first 
She  might  have  made  this  and  that  other 
world 

Another  world  for  the  sick  man  ; but  now 
The  shackles  of  an  old  love  straiten’d  him. 
His  honor  rooted  in  dishonor  stood. 

And  faith  unfaithful  kept  him  falsely  true. 

Yet  the  great  knight  in  his  mid-sickness 
made 

Full  many  a holy  vow  and  pure  resolve 
These,  as  but  born  of  sickness,  could  not 
live : 

For  when  the  blood  ran  lustier  in  him 
again. 

Full  often  the  sweet  image  of  one  face, 
Making  a treacherous  quiet  in  his  heart, 
Dispersed  his  resolution  like  a cloud. 

Then  if  the  maiden,  while  that  ghostly 
grace 

Beam’d  on  his  fancy,  spoke,  he  answer’d  not, 
Or  short  and  coldly,  and  she  knew  right 
well 

What  the  rough  sickness  meant,  but  what 
this  meant 

She  knew  not,  and  the  sorrow  dimm’d  her 
sight, 

And  drave  her  ere  her  time  across  the 
fields 

Far  into  the  rich  city,  where  alone 
She  murmur’d,  “ Vain,  in  vain  : it  cannot  be. 
He  will  not  love  me  : how  then  ? must  I 
die  ? ” 

Then  as  a little  helpless  innocent  bird. 

That  has  but  one  plain  passage  of  few 
notes. 

Will  sing  the  simple  passage  o’er  and  o’er 
For  all  an  April  morning,  till  the  ear 
Wearies  to  hear  it,  so  the  simple  maid 
Went  half  the  night  repeating,  “ Must  I 
die  } ” 

And  now  to  right  she  turn’d,  and  now  to  left. 
And  found  no  ease  in  turning  or  in  rest : 

And  “him  or  death”  she  mutter’d,  “death 
or  him,” 

Again  and  like  a burthen,  “him  or  death.” 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot’s  deadly  hurt  was 
whole, 

To  Astolat  returning  rode  the  three. 

1 here  morn  by  morn,  arraying  her  sweet  self 
In  that  wherein  she  deem’d  she  look’d  her 
best, 


She  came  before  Sir  Lancelot,  for  she 
thought 

“ If  I be  loved,  these  are  my  festal  robes. 

If  not,  the  victim’s  flowers  before  he  fall.” 

And  Lancelot  ever  prest  upon  the  maid 

That  she  should  ask  some  goodly  gift  of 
him 

For  her  own  self  or  hers  ; “and  do  not  shun 

To  speak  the  wish  most  near  to  your  true 
heart ; 

Such  service  have  you  done  me,  that  I 
make 

My  will  of  yours,  and  Prince  and  Lord 
am  I 

In  mine  own  land,  and  what  I will  I can.” 

Then  like  a ghost  she  lifted  up  her  face. 

But  like  a ghost  without  the  power  to 
speak. 

And  Lancelot  saw  that  she  withheld  her 
wish, 

And  bode  among  them  yet  a little  space. 

Till  he  should  learn  it;  and  one  morn  it 
chanced 

He  found  her  in  among  the  garden  yews. 

And  said,  “ Delay  no  longer,  speak  your 
wish, 

Seeing  I must  go  to-day  ” ; then  out  she 
brake ; 

“ Going  ? and  we  shall  never  see  you  more. 

And  I must  die  for  want  of  one  bold  word.” 

“Speak  : that  I live  to  hear,”  he  said,  “is 
yours.” 

Then  suddenly  and  passionately  she  spoke  : 

“ I have  gone  mad.  I love  you ; let  me 


“Ah  sister,”  answer’d  Lancelot,  “what  is 
this  ? ” 

And  innocently  extending  her  white  arms, 

“ Your  love,”  she  said,  “ your  love — to  be 
your  wife.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d,  “ Had  I chos’n  to 
wed, 

I had  been  wedded  earlier,  sweet  Elaine : 

But  now  there  never  will  be  wife  of  mine.” 

“No,  no,”  she  cried,  “ I care  not  to  be  wife. 

But  to  be  with  you  still,  to  see  your  face, 

To  serve  you,  and  to  follow  you  thro’  the 
world.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d,  “ Nay,  the  world, 
the  world. 

All  ear  and  eye,  with  such  a stupid  heart 

To  interpret  ear  and  eye,  and  such  a 
tongue 

To  blare  its  own  interpretation  — nay. 

Full  ill  then  should  I quit  your  brother’s 
love. 

And  your  good  father’s  kindness.”  And  she 
said, 

“ Not  to  be  with  you,  not  to  see  your  face. 

Alas  for  me  then,  my  good  days  are  done.” 

“Nay,^  noble  maid,”  he  answer’d,  “ten 
times  nay  ! 

This  is  not  love  : but  love’s  first  flash  in 
youth. 

Most  common  : yea,  I know  it  of  mine  own 
self : 

And  you  yourself  will  smile  at  your  own 
self 


200  ELAINE, 


Hereafter,  when  you  yield  your  flower  of  life 
To  one  more  fitly  yours,  not  thrice  your  age  : 
And  then  will  I,  for  true  you  are  and  sweet 
Beyond  mine  old  belief  in  womanhood, 
More  specially  should  your  good  knight  be 
poor, 

Endow  you  with  broad  land  and  territory 
Even  to  the  half  my  realm  beyond  the  seas. 
So  that  would  make  you  happy  ; further- 
more, 

Ev  ’n  to  the  death,  as  tho’  you  were  my 
blood. 

In  all  your  quarrels  will  I be  your  knight. 
This  will  I do,  dear  damsel,  for  your  sake, 
And  more  than  this  I cannot.” 

While  he  spoke 
She  neither  blush’d  nor  shook,  but  deathly- 
pale 

Stood  grasping  what  was  nearest,  then  re- 
plied, 

“ Of  all  this  will  I nothing  ” ; and  so  fell, 
And  thus  they  bore  her  swooning  to  her 
tower. 

Then  spake,  to  whom  thro’  those  black 
walls  of  yew 

Their  talk  had  pierced,  her  father,  “Ay,  a 
flash, 

I fear  me,  that  will  strike  my  blossom  dead. 
Too  courteous  are  you,  fair  Lord  Lancelot. 

I pray  you,  use  some  rough  discourtesy 
To  blunt  or  break  her  passion.” 

Lancelot  said, 

“ That  were  against  me ; what  I can  I 
will  ” ; 

And  there  that  day  remain’d,  and  toward 
even 

Sent  for  his  shield  ; full  meekly  rose  the 
maid, 

Stript  off  the  case,  and  gave  the  naked 
shield  ; 

Then,  when  she  heard  his  horse  upon  the 
stones. 

Unclasping  flung  the  casement  back,  and 
look’d 

Down  on  his  helm,  from  which  her  sleeve 
had  gone. 

And  Lancelot  knew  the  little  clinking  sound : 
And  she  by  tact  of  love  was  well  aware 
That  Lancelot  knew  that  she  was  looking  at 
him. 

And  yet  he  glanced  not  up,  nor  waved  his 
hand, 

Nor  bade  farewell,  but  sadly  rode  away. 

This  was  the  one  discourtesy  that  he  used. 

So  in  her  tower  alone  the  maiden  sat  : 

His  very  shield  was  gone  : only  the  case, 

Her  own  poor  work,  her  empty  labor,  left. 
But  still  she  heard  him,  still  his  picture 
form’d 

And  grew  between  her  and  the  pictured  wall. 
Then  came  her  father,  saying  in  low  tones 
“ Have  comfort,”  whom  she  greeted  quietly. 
Then  came  her  brethren  saying,  “ Peace  to 
thee 

Sweet  sister,”  whom  she  answer’d  with  all 
calm. 


But  when  they  left  her  to  herself  again,  • 
Death,  like  a friend’s  voice  from  a disLai.t  field 
Approaching  thro’  the  darkness,  called  ; the 
owls 

Wailing  had  power  upon  her,  and  she  mixt 
Her  fancies  with  the  sallow-rifted  glooms 
Of  evening,  and  the  meanings  of  the  wind. 

And  in  those  days  she  made  a little  song. 
And  call’d  her  song  “The  Song  of  Love  and 
Death,” 

And  sang  it;  sweetly  could  she  make  and 
sing. 

“ Sweet  is  true  love,  tho’  given  in  vain,  in 
vain  ; 

And  sweet  is  death  who  puts  an  end  to  pain  : 
I know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  1. 

“ Love,  art  thou  sweet  ? then  bitter  death 
must  be  : 

Love,  thou  art  bitter  ; sweet  is  death  to  me. 

0 Love,  if  death  be  sweeter,  let  me  die. 

“ Sweet  Love,  that  seems  not  made  to  fade 
away. 

Sweet  death,  that  seems  to  make  us  loveless 
clay, 

1 know  not  which  is  sweeter,  no,  not  I. 

“ I fain  would  follow  love,  if  that  could  be ; 
I needs  must  follow  death,  who  calls  for  me ; 
Call  and  I follow,  I follow  ! let  me  die.” 

High  with  the  last  line  scaled  her  voice,  and 
this. 

All  in  a fiery  dawning  wild  with  wind 
That  shook  her  tower,  the  brothers  heard, 
and  thought 

With  shuddering,  “Hark  the  Phantom  of 
the  house 

That  ever  shrieks  before  a death,”  and 
call’d 

The  father,  and  all  three  in  hurry  and  fear 
Ran  to  her,  and  lo  ! the  blood-red  light  of 
dawn 

Flared  on  her  face,  she  shrilling  “ Let  me 
die  ! ” 

As  when  we  dwell  upon  a word  w'e  know 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  so  well 
Becomes  a wonder  and  we  know  not  why. 

So  dwelt  the  father  on  her  face  and  thought 
“ Is  this  Elaine?  ” till  back  the  maiden  fell. 
Then  gave  a languid  hand  to  each,  and  lay. 
Speaking  a still  good-morrow  with  her  eyes. 
At  last  she  said,  “ Sweet  brothers,  yester- 
night 

I seeiii’d  a curious  little  maid  again. 

As  happy  as  when  we  dwelt  among  the 
w'oods. 

And  when  you  used  to  take  me  with  the 
flood 

Up  the  great  river  in  the  boatman’s  boat. 
Only  you  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it  : there  you  fixt 
Your  limit,  oft  returning  with  the  tide 
And  yet  I cried  because  you  would  not  pass 


ELAINE, 


301 


Bej'ond  it,  and  far  up  the  shining  flood 
Until  we  found  the  palace  of  the  king._ 

And  yet  you  would  not ; but  this  night  I 
dream’d 

That  I was  all  alone  upon  the  flood, 

And  then  I said,  ‘Now  shall  I have  my 


WIU  . 

And  there  I woke,  but  still  the  wish  re- 
main’d. 

So  let  me  hence  that  I may  pass  at  last 
Beyond  the  poplar  and  far  up  the  flood, 
Until  I find  the  palace  of  the  king. 

There  will  I enter  in  among  them  all. 

And  no  man  there  will  dare  to  mock  at  me  ; 
But  there  the  fine  Gawain  will  wonder  at  me. 
And  there  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  muse  at  me ; 
Gawain,  who  bade  a thou  sand  farewells  to  me, 
Lancelot,  who  coldly  went  nor  bade  me  one  : 
And  there  the  King  will  know  me  and  my 
love. 

And  there  the  Queen  herself  will  pity  me. 
And  all  the  gentle  court  will  welcome  me. 
And  after  my  long  voyage  I shall  rest ! ” 


“Peace,”  said  her  father,  “O  my  child, 
you  seem 

Light-headed,  for  what  force  is  yours  to  go. 

So  far,  being  sick  ? and  wherefore  would  you 
look 

On  this  proud  fellow  again,  who  scorns  us 
all?” 


Then  the  rough  Torre  began  to  heave  and 
move. 

And  bluster  into  stormy  sobs  and  say, 

“ 1 never  loved  him  : an  I meet  with  him, 

I care  not  howsoever  great  he  be. 

Then  will  I strike  at  him  and  strike  him 
down. 

Give  me  good  fortune,  I will  stri'ke  him  dead. 
For  this  discomfort  he  hath  done  the  house.” 


To  which  the  gentle  sister  made  reply, 

“ Fret  not  yourself,  dear  brother,  nor  be 
wroth. 

Seeing  it  is  no  more  Sir  Lancelot’s  fault 
Not  to  love  me,  than  it  is  mine  to  love 
Him  of  all  men  who  seems  to  me  the  high- 
est.” 


“Highest?”  the  Father  answer’d,  echoing 
“ highest.” 

(He  meant  to  break  the  passion  in  her.) 
“ Nay, 

Daughter,  I know  not  what  you  call  the  high- 
est ; 

But  this  I know,  for  all  the  people  know  it. 
He  loves  the  Queen,  and  in  an  open  shame  : 
And  she  returns  his  love  in  open  shame. 

If  this  be  high,  what  is  it  to  be  low  ? ” 

Then  spake  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat  : 

“ Sweet  father,  all  too  faint  and  sick  am  I 
For  anger  ; these  are  slanders  : never  yet 
Was  noble  man  but  made  ignoble  talk. 

He  makes  no  friend  who  never  made  a foe. 
But  now  it  is  my  glory  to  have  loved 
One  peerless,  without  stain  : so  let  me  pass, 
My  father,  howsoe’er  I seem  to  you. 


Not  all  unhappy,  having  loved  God’s  best 
And  greatest,  tho’  my  love  had  no  return  ; 
Yet,  seeing  you  desire  your  child  to  live, 
Thanks,  but  you  work  against  your  own  de- 
sire ; 

For  if  I could  believe  the  things  you  say 
I should  but  die  the  sooner  : wherefore  cease. 
Sweet  father,  and  bid  call  the  ghostly  man 
Hither,  and  let  me  shrive  me  clean,  and  die.” 

So  when  the  ghostly  man  had  come  and 
gone. 

She  with  a face,  bright  as  for  sin  forgiven. 
Besought  Lavaine  to  write  as  she  devised 
A letter,  word  for  word  ; and  when  he  ask’d 
“ Is  it  for  Lancelot,  is  it  for  my  dear  lord? 
Then  will  I bear  it  gladly  ” ; she  replied, 
“For  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  and  all  the 
world. 

But  I myself  must  bear  it.”  Then  he  wrote 
The  letter  she  devised  ; which  being  writ 
And  folded,  “O  sweet  father,  tender  and 
true. 

Deny  me  not,”  she  said  — “ you  never  yet 
Denied  my  fancies — this,  however  strange. 
My  latest : lay  the  letter  in  my  hand 
A little  ere  I die,  and  close  the  hand 
Upon  it ; I shall  guard  it  even  in  death. 

And  when  the  heat  is  gone  from  out  my 
heart. 

Then  take  the  little  bed  on  which  I died 
For  Lancelot’s  love,  and  deck  it  like  the 
Queen’s 

For  richness,  and  me  also  like  the  Queen 
In  all  I have  of  rich,  and  lay  me  on  it. 

And  let  there  be  prepared  a chariot-bier 
To  take  me  to  the  river,  and  a barge 
Be  ready  on  the  river,  clothed  in  black. 

I go  in  state  to  court,  to  meet  the  Queen. 
There  surely  I shall  speak  for  mine  own  self. 
And  none  of  you  can  speak  for  me  so  well. 
And  therefore  let  our  dumb  old  man  alone 
Go  with  me,  he  can  steer  and  row,  and  he 
Will  guide  me  to  that  palace,  to  the  doors.” 

She  ceased : her  father  promised ; where- 
upon 

She  grew  so  cheerful  that  they  deem’d  her 
death 

Was  rather  in  the  fantasy  than  the  blood. 

But  ten  slow  mornings  past,  and  on  the  elev- 
enth 

Her  father  laid  the  letter  in  her  hand. 

And  closed  the  hand  upon  it,  and  she  died. 
So  that  day  there  was  dole  in  Astolat. 

But  when  the  next  sun  brake  from  under- 
ground. 

Then,  those  two  brethren  slowly  with  bent 
brows 

Accompanying,  the  sad  chariot-bier 
Past  like  a shadow  thro’  the  field,  that  shone 
Full-summer,  to  that  stream  whereon  the 
barge. 

Pall’d  all  its  length  in  blackest  samite,  lay. 
There  sat  the  lifelong  creature  of  the  house. 
Loyal,  the  dumb  old  servitor,  on  deck. 
Winking  his  eyes,  and  twisted  all  his  lace. 


202 


ELAINE. 


So  those  two  brethren  from  the  chariot  took 
And  on  the  black  decks  laid  her  in  her  bed, 
Set  in  her  hand  a lily,  o’er  her  hung 
The  silken  case  with  braided  blazonings, 
And  kiss’d  her  quiet  brows,  and  saying  to 
her, 

“ Sister,  farewell  forever,”  and  again, 

“ Farewell,  sweet  sister,”  parted  all  in  tears. 
Then  rose  the  dumb  old  servitor,  and  the 
dead 

Steer’d  by  the  dumb  went  upward  with  the 
flood  — 

In  her  right  hand  the  lily,  in  her  left 
The  letter  — all  her  bright  hair  streaming 
down  — 

And  all  the  coverlid  was  cloth  of  gold 
Drawn  to  her  waist,  and  she  herself  in  white 
All  but  her  face,  and  that  clear-featured  face 
Was  lovely,  for  she  did  not  seem  as  dead 
But  fast  asleep,  and  lay  as  tho’  she  smiled. 

That  day  Sir  Lancelot  at  the  palace  craved 
Audience  of  Guinevere,  to  give  at  last 
The  price  of  half  a realm,  his  costly  gift. 
Hard-won  and  hardly  won  with  bruise  and 
blow. 

With  deaths  of  others,  and  almost  his  own, 
The  nine-years-fought-for  diamonds  : for  he 
saw 

One  of  her  house,  and  sent  him  to  the  Queen 
Bearing  his  wish,  whereto  the  Queen  agreed 
With  such  and  so  unmoved  a majesty 
She  might  have  seem’d  her  statue,  but  that 
he,  ^ 

Low-drooping  till  he  wellnigh  kiss’d  her 
feet 

For  loyal  awe,  saw  with  a sidelong  eye 
The  shadow  of  a piece  of  pointed  lace. 

In  the  Queen’s  shadow,  vibrate  on  the  walls. 
And  parted,  laughing  in  his  courtly  heart. 

All  in  an  oriel  on  the  summer  side. 
Vine-clad,  of  Arthur’s  palace  toward  the 
stream. 

They  met,  and  Lancelot  kneeling  utter’d 
“ Queen, 

Lady,  my  liege,  in  w'hom  I have  my  joy. 
Take,  what  I had  not  won  except  for  you, 
These  jewels,  and  make  me  happy,  making 
them 

An  armlet  for  the  roundest  arm  on  earth. 

Or  necklace  for  a neck  to  which  the  swan’s 
Is  tawnier  than  her  cygnet’s : these  are 
words  : 

Your  beauty  is  your  beauty,  and  I sin 
In  speaking,  yet  O grant  my  worship  of  it 
Words,  as  we  grant  grief  tears.  Such  sin  in 
words 

Perchance,  we  both  can  pardon : but,  my 
Queen, 

I hear  of  rumors  flying  thro’  your  court. 

Our  bond,  as  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife, 
Should  have  in  it  an  absoluter  trust 
To  make  up  that  defect : let  rumors  be  : 
When  did  not  rumors  fly?  these,  as  I trust 
That  you  trust  me  in  your  own  nobleness, 

I may  not  well  believe  that  you  believe.” 


While  thus  he  spoke,  half  turned  away,  the 
Queen 

Brake  from  the  vast  oriel-embowering  vine 
Leaf  after  leaf,  and  tore,  and  cast  them  off. 
Till  all  the  place  whereon  she  stood  was 
green  ; 

Then,  when  he  ceased,  in  one  cold  passive 
hand 

Received  at  once  and  laid  aside  the  gems 
There  on  a table  near  her,  and  replied ; 

“ It  may  be,  I am  quicker  of  belief 
Than  you  believe  me,  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Our  bond  is  not  the  bond  of  man  and  wife. 
This  good  is  in  it,  w hatsoe’er  of  ill. 

It  can  be  broken  easier.  I for  you 
This  many  a year  have  done  despite  and 
wrong 

To  one  whom  ever  in  my  heart  of  hearts 
I did  acknowledge  nobler.  What  are  these? 
Diamonds  for  me  ! they  had  been  thrice  their 
worth 

Being  your  gift,  had  you  not  lost  your  own. 
To  loyal  hearts  the  value  of  all  gifts 
Must  vary  as  the  giver’s.  Not  for  me  ! 

For  her ! for  your  new  fancy.  Only  this 
Grant  me,  I pray  you  : have  your  joys  apart. 
I doubt  not  that  however  changed,  you  keep 
So  much  of  what  is  graceful  ; and  myself 
W ould  shun  to  break  those  bounds  of  courtesy 
In  which  as  Arthur’s  queen  1 move  and  rule  : 
So  cannot  speak  my  mind.  An  end  to  this ! 
A strange  one  ! yet  I take  it  with  Amen. 

So  pray  you,  add  my  diamonds  to  her  pearls  ; 
Deck  her  with  these  ; tell  her,  she  shines  me 
down  : 

An  armlet  for  an  arm  to  which  the  Queen’s 
Is  haggard,  or  a necklace  for  a neck 
O as  much  fairer  — as  a faith  once  fair 
Was  richer  than  these  diamonds  — hers  not 
mine  — 

Nay,  by  the  mother  of  our  Lord  himselfj 
Or  hers  or  mine,  mine  now  to  work  my  will  — 
She  shall  not  have  them.” 

Saying  which  she  seized. 
And,  thro’  the  casement  standing  wide  for 
heat. 

Flung  them,  and  down  they  flash’d,  and 
smote  the  stream. 

Then  from  the  smitten  surface  flash’d  as  it 
were. 

Diamonds  to  meet  them,  and  they  past  aw'ay. 
Then  wfliile  Sir  Lancelot  leant,  in  half  disgust 
At  love,  life,  all  things,  on  the  window  ledge. 
Close  underneath  his  eyes,  and  right  across 
Where  these  had  fallen,  slowly  past  the  barge 
Whereon  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat 
Lay  smiling,  like  a star  in  blackest  night. 

But  the  wild  Queen,  who  saw  not,  burst 
away 

To  weep  and  wail  in  secret ; and  the  barge 
On  to  the  palace- doorway  sliding,  paused. 
There  two  stood  arm’d,  and  kept  the  door ; 
to  whom, 

All  up  the  marble  stair,  tier  over  tier. 

Were  added  mouths  that  gaped,  and  eyes 
that  ask’d 


ELAINE.  203 


“What  is  it?”  but  that  oarsman’s  haggard 
face, 

As  hard  and  still  as  is  the  face  that  men 
Shape  to  their  fancy’s  eye  from  broken  rocks 
On  some  cliff-side,  appall’d  them,  and  they 
said, 

“ He  is  enchanted,  cannot  speak  — and  she. 
Look  how  she  sleeps  — the  Fairy  Queen,  so 
fair  ! 

Yea,  but  how  pale ! what  are  they?  flesh  and 
blood? 

Or  come  to  take  the  King  to  fairy  land  ? 

For  some  do  hold  our  Arthur  cannot  die, 
But  that  he  passes  into  fairy  land.” 

While  thus  they  babbled  of  the  King,  the 
King 

Came  girt  with  knights : then  turn’d  the 
tongueless  man 

From  the  half-face  to  the  full  eye,  and  rose 
And  pointed  to  the  damsel,  and  the  doors. 

So  Arthur  bade  the  meek  Sir  Percivale 
And  pure  Sir  Galahad  to  uplift  the  maid  ; 
And  reverently  they  bore  her  into  hall. 

Then  came  the  fine  Gawain  and  wonder’d  at 
her. 

And  Lancelot  later  came  and  mused  at  her. 
At  last  the  Queen  herself  and  pitied  her  : 
But  Arthur  spied  the  letter  in  her  hand, 
Stoopt,  took,  brake  seal,  and  read  it ; this 
was  all : 

“ Most  noble  lord,  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  Lake, 
I,  sometime  call’d  the  maid  of  Astolat, 

Come,  for  you  left  me  taking  no  farewell, 
Hither,  to  take  my  last  farewell  of  you. 

I loved  you,  and  my  love  had  no  return, 

And  therefore  my  true  love  has  been  my 
death. 

And  therefore  to  our  lady  Guinevere, 

And  to  all  other  ladies,  I make  moan. 

Pray  for  my  soul,  and  yield  me  burial. 

Pray  for  my  soul  thou  too,  Sir  Lancelot, 

As  thou  art  a knight  peerless.” 

Thus  he  read. 

And  ever  in  the  readings  lords  and  dames 
Wept,  looking  often  from  his  face  who  read 
To  hers  which  lay  so  silent,  and  at  times. 

So  touch’d  were  they,  half-thinking  that  her 
lips, 

Who  had  devised  the  letter,  moved  again. 

Then  freely  spoke  Sir  Lancelot  to  them  all : 
“ My  lord  liege  Arthur,  and  all  ye  tfiat  hear. 
Know  that  for  this  most  gentle  maiden’s 
death 

Right  heavy  am  I : for  good  she  was  and  true. 
But  loved  me  with  a love  beyond  all  love 
In  women,  whomsoever  I have  known. 

Yet  to  be  loved  makes  not  to  love  again  ; 
Not  at  my  years,  however  it  hold  in  youth. 

I swear  by  truth  and  knighthood  that  I gave 
No  cause,  not  willingly,  for  such  a love  : 

To  this  1 call  my  friends  in  testimony. 

Her  brethren,  and  her  father,  who4nmself 
Besought  me  to  be  plain  and  blunt,  and  use. 
To  break  her  passion,  some  discourtesy 
Against  my  nature  : what  I could,  I did. 


I left  her  and  I bade  her  no  farewell. 

Tho’  had  I dreamt  the  damsel  would  have 
died, 

I might  have  put  my  wits  to  some  rough  use, 
And  help’d  her  from  herself.” 

Then  said  the  Queen 
(Sea  was  her  wrath,  yet  working  after  storm), 
“ You  might  at  least  have  done  her  so  much 
grace. 

Fair  lord,  as  would  have  help’d  her  from  her 
death.” 

He  raised  his  head,  their  eyes  met  and  hers 
fell. 

He  adding, 

“ Queen,  she  would  not  be  content 
Save  that  I wedded  her,  which  could  not  be. 
Then  might  she  follow  me  thro’  the  w'orld, 
she  ask’d  ; 

It  could  not  be.  I told  her  that  her  love 
Was  but  the  flash  of  youth,  would  darken 
down 

To  rise  hereafter  in  a stiller  flame 
Toward  one  more  worthy  of  her  — then 
would  I, 

More  specially  were  he,  she  wedded,  poor. 
Estate  them  with  large  land  and  territory 
In  mine  own  realm  beyond  the  narrow  seas, 
To  keep  them  in  all  joyance  : more  than 
this 

I could  not ; this  she  would  not,  and  she 
died.” 

He  pausing,  Arthur  answer’d,  “ O my 
knight. 

It  will  be  to  your  worship,  as  my  knight, 

And  mine,  as  head  of  all  our  Table  Round, 
To  see  that  she  be  buried  worshipfully.” 

So  toward  that  shrine  which  then  in  all  the 
realm 

Was  richest,  Arthur  leading,  slowly  went 
The  marshall’d  order  of  their  Table  Round, 
And  Lancelot  sad  beyond  his  wont,  to  see 
The  maiden  buried,  not  as  one  unknown, 
Nor  meanly,  but  with  gorgeous  obsequies. 
And  mass,  and  rolling  music,  like  a Queen. 
And  when  the  knights  had  laid  her  comely 
head 

Low  in  the  dust  of  half-forgotten  kings, 
Then  Arthur  spake  among  them,  “ Let  her 
tomb 

Be  costly,  and  her  image  thereupon. 

And  let  the  shield  of  Lancelot  at  her  feet 
Be  carven,  and  her  lily  in  her  hand. 

And  let  the  story  of  her  dolorous  voyage 
For  all  true  hearts  be  blazon’d  on  her  tomb 
In  letters  gold  and  azure  1 ” which  was 
wrought 

Thereafter  ; but  when  now  the  lords  and 
dames 

And  people,  from  the  high  door  streaming, 
brake 

Disorderly,  as  homeward  each,  the  Queen, 
Who  mark’d  Sir  Lancelot  where  he  moved 
apart. 

Drew  near,  and  sigh’d  in  passing  “ Lancelot, 
Forgive  me  ; mine  was  jealousy  in  love.” 

He  answer’d  with  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 


204  GUINEVERE. 


“ That  is  love’s  curse  ; pass  on,  my  Queen, 
forgiven,” 

But  Arthur  who  beheld  his  cloudy  brows 
Approach’d  him,  and  with  full  affection  flung 
One  arm  about  his  neck,  and  spake  and 
said ; 

“ Lancelot,  my  Lancelot,  thou  in  whom  I 
have 

Most  joy  and  most  affiance,  for  I know 
What  thou  hast  been  in  battle  by  my  side, 
And  many  a time  have  watch’d  thee  at  the 
tilt 

Strike  down  the  lusty  and  long-practised 
knight. 

And  let  the  younger  and  unskill’d  go  by 
To  win  his  honor  and  to  make  his  name. 

And  loved  thy  courtesies  and  thee,  a man 
Made  to  be  loved; — but  now  I would  to 
God, 

For  the  wild  people  say  wild  things  of  thee. 
Thou  couldst  have  loved  this  maiden, 
shaped,  it  seems. 

By  God  for  thee  alone,  and  from  her  face, 

If  one  may  judge  the  living  by  the  dead, 
Delicately  pure  and  marvellously  fair. 

Who  might  have  brought  thee,  now  a lonely 
man 

Wifeless  and  heirless,  noble  issue,  sons 
Born  to  the  glory  of  thy  name  and  fame. 

My  knight,  the  great  Sir  Lancelot  of  the 
Lake.” 

Then  answer’d  Lancelot,  “Fair  she  was, 
my  King, 

Pure,  as  you  ever  wish  your  knights  to  be. 
To  doubt  her  fairness  were  to  want  an  eye. 
To  doubt  her  pureness  were  to  w^ant  a 
heart,  — 

Yea,  to  be  loved,  if  what  is  worthy  love 
Could  bind  him,  but  free  love  will  not  be 
bound.” 

“ Free  love,  so  bound,  were  freest,”  said 
the  King. 

“ Let  love  be  free  ; free  love  is  for  the  best : 
And,  after  heaven,  on  our  dull  side  of  death, 
What  should  be  best,  if  not  so  pure  a love 
Clothed  in  so  pure  a loveliness?  yet  thee 
She  fail’d  to  bind,  tho’  being,  as  I think. 
Unbound  as  yet,  and  gentle,  as  I know.” 

And  Lancelot  answer’d  nothing,  but  he 
went. 

And  at  the  inrunning  of  a little  brook 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a cove  and  watch’d 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  moving 
down. 

Far-off,  a blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said 
Low  in  himself,  “ Ah  simple  heart  and 
sweet. 

You  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen’s.  Pray  for 
thy  soul  ? 

Ay,  that  will  1.  Farewell  too  — now  at 
last  — 

Farewell,  fair  lily.  ‘ Jealousy  in  love  ’ ? 


Not  rather  dead  love’s  harsh  heir,  jealous 
pride? 

Queen,  if  I grant  the  jealousy  as  of  love. 
May  not  your  crescent  fear  for  name  and 
fame 

Speak,  as  it  waxes,  of  a love  that  wanes? 
Why  did  the  King  dwell  on  my  name  Jo  me  ? 
;Mine  own  name  shames  me,  seeming  a 
reproach, 

Lancelot,  whom  the  Lady  of  the  lake 
Stole  from  his  mother  — as  the  story  runs  — 
She  chanted  snatches  of  mysterious  song 
Heard  on  the  winding  waters,  eve  and  mom 
She  kiss’d  me  saying  thou  art  fair,  my  child. 
As  a king’s  son,  and  often  in  her  arms 
She  bare  me,  pacing  on  the  dusky  mere. 
Would  she  had  drown’d  me  in  it,  where’er  it 
be  ! 

For  what  am  I ? what  profits  me  my  name 
Of  greatest  knight  ? I fought  for  it,  and  have 
it : 

Pleasure  to  have  it,  none  ; to  lose  it,  pain  : 
Now  grown  a part  of  me  : but  what  use  in  it  ? 
To  make  men  worse  by  making  my  sin 
known  ? 

Or  sin  seem  less,  the  sinner  seeming  great  ? 
Alas  for  Arthur’s  greatest  knight,  a man 
Not  after  Arthur’s  heart ! 1 needs  must 
break 

These  bonds  that  so  defame  me  : not  without 
She  wills  it : would  I,  if  she  will’d  it?  nay. 
Who  knows?  but  if  1 would  not,  then  may 
God, 

I pray  him,  send  a sudden  Angel  down 
To  seize  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far. 
And  fling  me  deep  in  that  forgotten  mere. 
Among  the  tumbled  fragments  of  the  hills.” 

So  groan’d  Sir  Lancelot  in  remorseful  pain, 
Not  knowing  he  should  die  a holy  man. 


GUINEVERE. 

Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court,  and 
sat 

There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a little  maid, 

A novice  : one  low  light  betwixt  them  burn’d 
Blurr’d  by  the  creeping  mist,  for  all  abroad, 
Beneath  a moon  unseen  albeit  at  full. 

The  white  mist,  like  a face-cloth  to  the  face. 
Clung  to  the  dead  earth,  and  the  land  was 
still. 

For  hither  had  she  fled,  her  cause  of  flight 
Sir  Modred  ; he  the  nearest  to  the  King, 
His  nephew,  ever  like  a subtle  beast 
Lay  couchant  with  his  eyes  upon  the  throne. 
Ready  to  spring,  waiting  a chance  : for  this. 
He  chill’d  the  popular  praises  of  the  King, 
With  silent  smiles  of  slow  disparagement  ; 
And  tamper’d  with  the  Lords  of  the  White 
Horse, 

HeatheflT  the  brood  by  Hengist  left ; and 
sought 

To  make  disruption  in  the  Table  Round 
Of  Arthur,  and  to  splinter  it  into  feuds 


Queen  Guinevere  had  fled  the  court,  and  sat 
There  in  the  holy  house  at  Almesbury 
Weeping,  none  with  her  save  a little  maid, 

A novice.” 


GUINEVERE. 


205 


Serving  his  traitorous  end  ; and  all  his  aims 
Were  sharpen’d  by  strong  hate  for  Lancelot. 

For  thus  it  chanced  one  morn  when  all  the 
court, 

Green-suited,  but  with  plumes  that  mock’d 
the  May, 

Had  been,  their  wont,  a-maying  and  return’d. 
That  Modred  still  in  green,  all  ear  and  eye, 
Climb’d  to  the  high  top  of  the  garden  wall 
To  spy  some  secret  scandal  if  he  might. 

And  saw  the  Queen,  who  sat  betwixt  her  best 
Enid,  and  lissome  Vivien,  of  her  court 
The  wiliest  and  the  worst ; and  more  than 
this 

He  saw  not,  for  Sir  Lancelot  passing  by 
Spied  where  he  couch’d,  and  as  the  garden- 
er’s hand 

Picks  from  the  colewort  a green  caterpillar. 
So  from  the  high  wall  and  the  flowering  grove 
Of  grasses  Lancelot  pluck’d  him  by  the  heel. 
And  cast  him  as  a worm  upon  the  way  ; 

But  when  he  knew  the  Prince  tho’  marr’d 
with  dust. 

He,  reverencing  king’s  blood  in  a bad  man. 
Made  such  excuses  as  he  might,  and  these 
r ull  knightly  without  scorn  ; for  in  those  days 
No  knight  of  Arthur’s  noblest  dealt  in  scorn; 
But,  if  a man  were  halt  or  hunch’d,  in  him 
By  those  whom  God  had  made  full-limb’d 
and  tall, 

Scorn  was  allow’d  as  part  of  his  defect. 

And  he  was  answer’d  softly  by  the  King 
And  all  his  Table.  So  Sir  Lancelot  holp 
To  raise  the  Prince,  who  rising  twice  or  thrice 
Full  sharply  smot’e  his  knees,  and  smiled, 
and  went : 

But,  ever  after,  the  small  violence  done 
Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart. 

As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A little  bitter  pool  about  a stone 
On  the  bare  coast. 

But  when  Sir  Lancelot  told 
This  matter  to  the  Queen,  at  first  she  laugh’d 
Lightly,  to  think  of  Modred’s  dusty  fall. 
Then  shudder’d,  as  the  village  wife  who  cries 
“ I shudder,  some  one  steps  across  my 
grave ; ” 

Then  laugh’d  again,  but  faintlier,  for  indeed 
She  half-foresaw  that  he,  the  subtle  beast. 
Would  track  her  guilt  until  he  found,  and 
hers 

Would  be  forevermore  a name  of  scorn. 
Henceforward  rarely  could  she  front  in  Hall, 
Or  elsewhere,  Modred’s  narrow  foxv  face. 
Heart-hiding  smile,  and  gray  persistent  eye  : 
Henceforward  too,  the  Powers  that  tend  the 
soul. 

To  help  it  from  the  death  that  cannot  die. 
And  save  it  even  in  extremes,  began 
To  vex  and  plague  her.  Many  a time  for 
hours. 

Beside  the  placid  breathings  of  the  King, 

In  the  dead  night,  grim  faces  came  and  went 
Before  her,  or  a vague  spiritual  fear  — 

Like  to  some  doubtful  noise  of  creaking 
doors, 

Heard  by  the  watcher  in  a haunted  house, 


That  keeps  the  ^•ust  of  murder  on  the  walls  — 
Held  her  awake  ; or  if  she  slept,  she  dream’d 
An  aw'ful  dream  ; for  then  she  seem’d  to  stand 
On  some  vast  plain  before  a setting  sun, 

And  from  the  sun  there  swiftly  made  at  her 
A ghastly  something,  and  its  shadow  flew 
Before  her,  till  it  touch’d  her,  and  she 
turn’d  — 

When  lo  ! her  own,  that  broadening  from 
her  feet. 

And  blackening,  swallow’d  all  the  land,  and 
in  it 

Far  cities  burnt,  and  with  a cry  she  woke. 
And  all  this  trouble  did  not  pass  but  grew  ; 
Till  ev’n  the  clear  face  of  the  guileless  King, 
And  trustful  courtesies  of  household  life. 
Became  her  bane  ; and  at  the  last  she  said, 
“O  Lancelot,  get  thee  hence  to  thine  own 
land. 

For  if  thou  tarry  we  shall  meet  again. 

And  if  we  meet  again  some  evil  chance 
Will  make  the  smouldering  scandal  break 
and  blaze 

Before  the  people,  and  our  lord  the  King.” 
And  Lancelot  ever  promised,  but  remain’d. 
And  still  they  met  and  met.  Again  she  said, 
“ O Lancelot,  if  thou  love  me  get  thee  hence,” 
And  then  they  were  agreed  upon  a night 
(When  the  good  King  should  not  be  there) 
to  meet 

And  part  forever.  Passion-pale  they  met 
And  greeted  : hands  in  hands,  and  eye  to  eye. 
Low  on  the  border  of  her  couch  they  sat 
Stammering  and  staring ; it  was  their  last 
hour, 

A madness  of  farewells.  And  Modred 
brought 

His  creatures  to  the  basement  of  the  tower 
For  testimony  ; and  crying  with  full  voice, 
“Traitor,  come  out,  ye  are  trapt  at  last,” 
aroused 

Lancelot,  who  rushing  outward  lion-like 
Leapt  on  him,  and  hurl’d  him  headlong,  and 
he  fell 

Stunn’d,  and  his  creatures  took  and  bare  him 
off 

And  all  was  still : then  she,  “ The  end  is 
come 

And  I am  shamed  forever  ” ; and  he  said, 

“ Mine  be  the  shame  ; mine  was  the  sin  ; but 
rise. 

And  fly  to  my  strong  castle  overseas  ; 

There  will  I hide  thee,  till  my  life  shall  end. 
There  hold  thee  with  my  life  against  the 
world.” 

She  answer’d,  “ Lancelot,  wilt  thou  hold  me 
so  ? 

Nay  friend,  for  we  have  taken  our  farewells. 
Would  God,  that  thou  couldst  hide  me  from 
myself ! 

Mine  is  the  shame,  for  I was  wife,  and  thou 
Un wedded  : yet  rise  now,  and  let  us  fly. 

For  I will  draw  me  into  sanctuary. 

And  bide  my  doom.”  So  Lancelot  got  her 
horse. 

Set  her  thereon,  and  mounted  on  his  own. 
And  then  they  rode  to  the  divided  way. 
There  kiss’d,  and  parted  weeping  : for  he  past 


2o6  GUINEVERE. 


Love^loyal  to  the  least  wish  of  the  Queen, 
Back  to  his  land  ; but  she  to  Almesbury 
Fled  all  night  long  by  glimmering  waste  and 
weald, 

And  heard  the  Spirits  of  the  waste  and  weald 
Moan  as  she  fled,  or  thought  she  heard  them 
moan  : 

And  in  herself  she  moan’d,  “ Too  late,  too 
late  ! ” 

Till  in  the  cold  wind  that  foreruns  the  morn. 
A blot  in  heaven,  the  Raven,  flying  high. 
Croak’d,  and  she  thought,  ‘‘  He  spies  a field 
of  death  ; 

For  now  the  heathen  of  the  Northern  Sea, 
Lured  by  the  crimes  and  frailties  of  the  court. 
Begin  to  slay  the  folk,  and  spoil  the  land.” 

And  when  she  came  to  Almesbury  she 
spake 

There  to  the  nuns,  and  said,  “ Mine  enemies 
Pursue  me,  but,  O peaceful  Sisterhood, 
Receive,  and  yield  me  sanctuary,  nor  ask 
Her  name,  to  whom  ye  yield  it,  till  her  time 
To  tell  you  ” : and  her  beauty,  grace,  and 
power 

Wrought  as  a charm  upon  them,  and  they 
spared 
To  ask  it. 

So  the  stately  Queen  abode 
For  many  a week,  unknown,  among  the  nuns; 
Nor  with  them  mix’d,  nor  told  her  name,  nor 
sought. 

Wrapt  in  her  grief,  for  housel  or  for  shrift. 
But  communed  only  with  the  little  maid, 
Who  pleased  her  with  a babbling  heedless- 
ness 

Which  often  lured  her  from  herself ; but  now. 
This  night,  a rumor  wildly  blown  about 
Came,  that  Sir  Modred  had  usurp’d  the 
realm, 

And  leagued  him  with  the  heathen,  while  the 
King 

Was  waging  war  on  Lancelot  : then  she 
thought, 

“ With  what  a hate  the  people  and  the  King 
Must  hate  me,”  and  bow’d  down  upon  her 
hands 

Silent,  until  the  little  maid,  who  brook’d 
No  silence,  brake  it,  uttering  “ Late  ! so 
late  ! 

What  hour,  I wonder,  now?  ” and  when  she 
drew 

No  answer,  by  and  by  began  to  hum 
An  air  the  nuns  had  taught  her  ; ” Late,  so 
late  ! ” 

Which  when  she  heard,  the  Queen  look’d 
up,  and  said, 

“ O maiden,  if  indeed  you  list  to  sing, 

Sing,  and  unbind  my  heart  that  I may  weep.” 
Whereat  full  willingly  sang  the  little  maid. 

“ Late,  late,  so  late  ! and  dark  the  night 
and  chill  ! 

Late,  late,  so  late  ! but  we  can  enter  still. 
Too  late,  too  late  ! ye  cannot  enter  now. 

“No  light  had  we  : for  that  we  do  repent ; 
And  learning  this,  the  bridegroom  will  relent. 
Too  late,  too  late  I ye  cannot  enter  now. 


“ No  light  : so  late  ! and  dark  and  chill  the 
night  1 

O let  us  in,  that  we  may  find  the  light  ! 

Too  late,  too  late  1 ye  cannot  enter  now. 

“ Have  we  not  heard  the  bridegroom  is  so 
sweet  ? 

0 let  us  in,  tho’  late,  to  kiss  his  feet ! 

No,  no,  too  late  ! ye  cannot  enter  now.” 

So  sang  the  novice,  while  full  passionately, 
Her  head  upon  her  hands,  remembering 
Her  thought  when  first  she  came,  wept  the 
sad  Queen. 

Then  said  the  little  novice  prattling  to  her  ; 

“ O pray  you,  noble  lady,  weep  no  more  ; 
But  let  my  words,  the  words  of  one  so  small, 
Who  knowing  nothing  knows  but  to  obey. 
And  if  I do  not  there  is  penance  given  — 
Comfort  your  sorrows  ; for  they  do  not  flow 
From  evil  done  ; right  sure  am  I of  that. 
Who  see  your  tender  grace  and  stateliness. 
But  weigh  your  sorrows  with  our  lord  the 
King’s, 

And  weighing  find  them  less  ; for  gone  is  he 
To  wage  grim  war  against  Sir  Lancelot  there, 
Round  that  strong  castle  where  he  holds  the 
Queen  ; 

And  Modred  whom  he  left  in  charge  of  all. 
The  traitor — Ah  sweet  lady,  the  King’s  grief 
For  his  own  self,  and  his  own  Queen,  and 
realm. 

Must  needs  be  thrice  as  gr^at  as  any  of  ours. 
For  me,  I thank  the  saints  I am  not  great. 
For  if  there  ever  come  a grief  to  me 

1 cry  my  cry  in  silence,  and  have  done  : 

None  knows  it,  and  my  tears  have  brought 

me  good. 

But  even  were  the  griefs  of  little  ones 
As  great  as  those  of  great  ones,  yet  this  grief 
Is  added  to  the  griefs  the  great  must  bear, 
That  howsoever  much  they  may  desire 
Silence,  they  cannot  weep  behind  a cloud  : 
As  even  here  they  talk  at  Almesbury 
About  the  good  King  and  his  wicked  Queen, 
And  were  I such  a King  with  such  a Queen, 
Well  might  I wish  to  veil  her  w'ickedness,  * 
But  were  I such  a King,  it  could  not  be.” 

Then  to  her  own  sad  heart  mutter’d  the 
Queen, 

“Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  innocent 
talk?” 

But  openly  she  answer’d,  “ Must  not  I, 

If  this  false  traitor  have  displaced  his  lord. 
Grieve  with  the  common  grief  of  all  the 
realm  ? ” 

“ Yea,”  said  the  maid,  “ this  is  all  woman’s 

That  she  is  woman,  whose  disloyal  life 
Hath  wrought  confusion  in  the  Table  Round 
Which  good  King  Arthur  founded,  years  ago. 
With  signs  and  miracles  and  wonders,  there 
At  Camelot,  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen.” 


L 

GUINEVERE.  207 


Then  thought  the  Queen  within  herself 
again, 

“Will  the  child  kill  me  with  her  foolish 
prate?” 

But  openly  she  spake  and  said  to  her, 

“ O little  maid,  shut  in  by  nunnery  walls, 
What  canst  thou  know  of  Kings  and  Tables 
Round, 

Or  what  of  signs  and  wonders,  but  the  signs 
And  simple  miracles  of  thy  nunnery  ? ” 

To  whom  the  little  novice  garrulously  : 
“Yea,  but  I know:  the  land  was  full  of  signs 
And  wonders  ere  the  coming  of  the  Queen. 
■So  said  my  father,  and  himself  was  knight 
Of  the  great  Table  — at  the  founding  of  it  : 
And  rode  thereto  from  Lyonnesse,  and  he 
said  . 

That  as  he  rode,  an  hour  or  maybe  twain 
After  the  sunset,  down  the  coast,  he  heard 
Strange  music,  and  he  paused  and  turning — 
there. 

All  down  the  lonely  coast  of  Lyonnesse, 

Each  with  a beacon-star  upon  his  head. 

And  with  a wild  sea  light  about  his  feet. 

He  saw  them  — headland  after  headland 
flame 

Far  on  into  the  rich  heart  of  the  west : 

And  in  the  light  the  white  mermaiden  swam. 
And  strong  man-breasted  things  stood  from 
the  sea. 

And  sent  a deep  sea-voice  thro’  all  the  land. 
To  which  the  little  elves  of  chasm  and  cleft 
Made  answer,  sounding  like  a distant  horn. 
So  said  my  father  — yea,  and  furthermore. 
Next  morning,  while  he  past  the  dim-lit 
woods. 

Himself  beheld  three  spirits  mad  with  joy 
Come  dashing  down  on  a tall  wayside  flower, 
That  shook  beneath  them,  as  the  thistle 
shakes 

When  three  gray  linnets  wrangle  for  the  seed : 
And  still  at  evenings  on  before  his  horse 
The  flickering  fairy-circle  wheel’d  and  broke 
Flying,  and  link’d  again,  and  wheel’d  and 
broke 

Flying,  for  all  the  land  was  full  of  life. 

And  when  at  last  he  came  to  Camelot, 

A wreath  of  airy  dancers  hand-in-hand 
Swung  round  the  lighted  lantern  of  the  hall ; 
And  in  the  hall  itself  was  such  a feast 
As  never  man  had  dream’d  ; for  every  knight 
Had  whatsoever  meat  he  long’d  for  served 
By  hands  unseen  ; and  even  as  he  said 
Down  in  the  cellars  merry  bloated  things 
Shoulder’d  the  spigot,  straddling  on  the  butts 
While  the  wine  ran:  so  glad  were  spirits  and 
men 

Before  the  coming  of  the  sinful  Queen.” 

* Then  spake  the  Queen,  and  somewhat 
bitterly, 

“Were  they  so  glad?  ill  prophets  were  they 
all. 

Spirits  and  men  : could  none  of  them  foresee. 
Not  even  thy  wise  father  with  his  signs 
And  wonders,  what  has  fall’n  upon  the 
realm ” 


To  whom  the  novice  garrulously  again  ; 
“Yea,  one,  a bard  ; of  whom  my  father  said. 
Full  many  a noble  war-song  had  he  sung, 
Ev’n  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy’s  fleet. 
Between  the  steep  cliff  and  the  coming  wave  ; 
And  many  a mystic  lay  of  life  and  death 
Had  chanted  on  the  smoky  mountain -tops. 
When  round  him  bent  the  spirits  of  the  hills 
With  all  their  dewy  hair  blown  back  like 
flame  : 

So  said  my  father  — and  that  night  the  bard 
Sang  Arthur’s  glorious  wars,  and  sang  the 
King 

As  wellnigh  more  than  man,  and  rail’d  at 
those 

Who  call’d  him  the  false  son  of  Gorlois  : 

For  there  was  no  man  knew  from  whence  he 
came  ; 

But  after  tempest,  when  the  long  wave  broke 
All  down  the  thundering  shores  of  Bude  and 
Bos, 

There  came  a day  as  still  as  heaven,  and  then 
They  found  a naked  child  upon  the  sands 
Of  dark  Dundagil  by  the  Cornish  sea  : 

And  that  was  Arthur;  and  they  foster’d  him 
Till  he  by  miracle  was  approven  king  : 

And  that  his  grave  should  be  a mystery 
From  all  men,  like  his  birth;  and  could  he  find 
A woman  in  her  womanhood  as  great 
As  he  was  in  his  manhood,  then,  he  sang. 
The  twain  together  well  might  change  the 
world. 

But  even  in  the  middle  of  his  song 
He  falter’d,  and  his  hand  fell  from  the  harp, 
And  pale  he  turn’d,  and  reel’d,  and  would 
have  fall’ll. 

But  that  they  stay’d  him  up ; nor  would  he 
tell 

His  vision  ; but  what  doubt  that  he  foresaw 
This  evil  work  of  Lancelot  and  the  Queen  ? ” 

Then  thought  the  Queen,  “ Lo  ! they  have 
set  her  on, 

Our  simple-seeming  Abbess  and  her  nuns. 
To  play  upon  me,”  and  bow’d  her  head  nor 
spake. 

Whereat  the  novice  crying,  with  clasp’d 
hands. 

Shame  on  her  own  garrulity  garrulously. 

Said  the  good  nuns  would  check  her  gadding 
tongue 

Full  often,  “And,  sweet  lady,  if  I seem 
To  vex  an  ear  too  sad  to  listen  to  me, 
Untnannerly,  with  prattling  and  the  tales 
Which  my  good  father  told  me,  check  me 
too : 

Nor  let  me  shame  my  father’s  memory,  one 
Of  noblest  manners,  tho’  himself  would  say 
Sir  Lancelot  had  the  noblest  ; and  he  died, 
Kill’d  in  a tilt,  come  next,  five  summers 
back. 

And  left  me  ; but  of  others  who  remain. 

And  of  the  two  first-famed  for  courtesy  — 
And  pray  you  check  me  if  I ask  amiss  — 

But  pray  you,  which  had  noblest,  while  you 
moved 

Among  them,  Lancelot  or  our  lord  the 
King?” 


GUINEVERE, 


208 

Then  the  pale  Queen  look’d  up  and  an- 
swer’d her, 

Sir  Lancelot,  as  became  a noble  knight, 
Was  gracious  to  all  ladies,  and  the  same 
In  open  battle  or  the  tilting-field 
Forbore  his  own  advantage,  and  these  two 
Were  the  most  nobly-manner’d  men  of  all ; 
For  manners  are  not  idle,  but  the  fruit 
Of  loyal  nature,  and  of  noble  mind.” 

“Yea,”  said  the  maid,  “be  manners  such 
fair  fruit  ? 

Then  Lancelot’s  needs  must  be  a thousand- 
fold 

Less  noble,  being,  as  all  rumor  runs, 

The  most  disloyal  friend  in  all  the  world.’* 

To  which  'a  mournful  answer  made  the 
Queen, 

“ O closed  about  by  narrowing  nunnery- walls. 
What  knowest  thou  of  the  world,  and  all  its 
lights 

And  shadow's,  all  the  wealth  and  all  the  woe  ? 
If  ever  Lancelot,  that  most  noble  knight, 
Were  for  one  hour  less  noble  than  himself. 
Pray  for  him  that  he  scape  the  doom  of  fire. 
And  weep  for  her,  who  drew  him  to  his 
doom.” 

“Yea,”  said  the  little  novice,  “ I pray  for 
both  ; 

But  I should  all  as  soon  believe  that  his. 

Sir  Lancelot’s,  were  as  noble  as  the  King’s, 
As  I could  think,  sw'eet  lady,  yours  would  be 
Such  as  they  are,  were  you  the  sinful  Queen.” 

So  she,  like  many  another  babbler,  hurt 
Whom  she  w'ould  soothe,  and  harm’d  where 
she  would  heal  ; 

For  here  a sudden  flush  of  w'rathful  heat 
Fired  all  the  pale  face  of  the  Queen,  who 
cried, 

“ Such  as  thou  art  be  never  maiden  more 
Forever  ! thou  their  tool,  set  on  to  plague 
And  play  upon,  and  harry  me,  petty  spy 
And  traitress.”  When  that  storm  of  anger 
brake 

From  Guinevere,  aghast  the  maiden  rose. 
White  as  her  veil,  and  stood  before  the 
Queen 

As  tremulously  as  foam  upon  the  beach 
Stands  in  a wind,  ready  to  break  and  fly. 

And  w'hen  the  Queen  had  added  “ Get  thee 
hence  ! ” 

Fled  frighted.  Then  that  other  left  alone 
Sigh’d,  and  began  to  gather  heart  again. 
Saying  in  herself,  “The  simple,  fearful  child 
Meant  nothing,  but  my  own  too-fearful  guilt 
Simpler  than  any  child,  betrays  itself 
But  help  me,  heaven,  for  surely  I repent. 

For  what  is  true  repentance  but  in  thought — 
Not  e’en  in  inmost  thought  to  think  again 
The  sins  that  made  the  past  so  pleasant  to 
us  : 

And  I have  sworn  never  to  see  him  more, 

To  see  him  more.” 

And  e’en  in  saying  this, 
Her  memory  from  old  habit  of  the  mind 


Went  slipping  back  upon  the  golden  days 
In  which  she  saw  him  first,  when  Lancelot 
came. 

Reputed  the  best  knight  and  goodliest  man, 
Ambassador,  to  lead  her  to  his  lord 
Arthur,  and  led  her  forth,  and  far  aliead 
Of  his  and  her  retinue  moving,  they. 

Rapt  in  sweet  thought,  or  lively,  all  on  love 
And  sport  and  tilts  and  pleasure,  (for  the 
time 

Was  maytime,  and  as  yet  no  sin  was 
dream’d,) 

Rode  under  groves  that  look’d  a paradise 
Of  blossom,  over  sheets  of  hyacinth 
That  seem’d  the  heavens  upbreaking  thro’ 
the  earth, 

And  on  from  hill  to  hill,  and  every  day 
Beheld  at  noon  in  some  delicious  dale 
The  silk  pavilions  of  King  Arthur  raised 
For  brief  repast  or  afternoon  repose 
By  couriers  gone  before  ; and  on  again, 

Till  yet  once  more  ere  set  of  sun  they  saw 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragon-ship, 
That  crown’d  the  state  pavilion  of  the  King, 
Blaze  by  the  rushing  brook  or  silent  well. 

But  when  the  Queen  immersed  in  such  a 
trance. 

And  moving  thro’  the  past  unconsciously. 
Came  to  that  point,  when  first  she  saw  the 
King 

Ride  toward  her  from  the  city,  sigh’d  to  find 
Her  journey  done,  glanced  at  him,  thought 
him  cold. 

High,  self-contain’d,  and  passionless,  not 
like  him, 

“ Not  like  my  Lancelot  ” — while  she  brood- 
ed thus 

And  grew  half-guilty  in  her  thoughts  again, 
There  rode  an  armed  warrior  to  the  doors. 

A murmuring  w'hisper  thro’  the  nunnery  ran. 
Then  on  a sudden  a cry,  “ The  King.”  She 
sat 

Stiff-stricken,  listening;  but  when  armed 
feet 

Thro’  the  long  gallery  from  the  outer  doors 
Rang  coming,  prone  from  off  her  seat  she 
fell. 

And  grovell’d  with  her  face  against  the  floor  : 
There  w'ith  her  milkwhite  arms  and  shadowy 
hair 

She  made  her  face  a darkness  from  the  King : 
And  in  the  darkness  heard  his  armed  feet 
Pause  by  her ; then  came  silence,  then  a 
voice. 

Monotonous  and  hollow  like  a Ghost’s 
Denouncing  judgment,  but  tho’  changed  the 
King’s. 

“ Liest  thou  here  so  low,  the  child  of  one 
I honor’d,  happy,  dead  before  thy  shame  ? 
Well  is  it  that  no  child  is  born  of  thee. 

The  children  born  of  thee  are  sword  and  fire, 
Red  ruin,  and  the  breaking  up  of  law's, 

The  craft  of  kindred  and  the  Godless  hosts 
Of  heathen  swarming  o’er  the  Northern  Sea. 
Whom  I,  while  yet  Sir  Lancelot,  my  right 
arm, 


GUINEVERE. 


The  mightiest  of  my  knights  abode  with  me, 
Have  everywhere  about  this  land  of  Christ 
In  twelve  great  battles  ruining  overthrown. 
And  knowest  thou  now  from  whence  I come 
— from  him, 

From  waging  bitter  war  with  him  : and  he. 
That  did  not  shun  to  smite  me  in  worse  way. 
Had  yet  that  ^race  of  courtesy  in  him  left. 
He  spared  to  lift  his  hand  against  the  King 
Who  made  him  knight : but  many  a knight 
was  slain ; 

And  many  more,  and  all  his  kith  and  kin 
Clave  to  him,  and  abode  in  his  ovyn  land. 
And  many  more  when  Modred  raised  revolt. 
Forgetful  of  their  troth  and  fealty,  clave 
To  Modred,  and  a remnant  stays  with  me. 
And  of  this  remnant  will  I leave  a part. 

True  men  who  love  me  still,  for  whom  I live. 
To  guard  thee  in  the  wild  hour  coming  on. 
Lest  but  a hair  of  this  low  head  be  harm’d. 
Fear  not:  tho«  shall  be  guarded  till  my 
death. 

Howbeit  I know,  if  ancient  prophecies 
Have  err’d  not,  that  I march  to  meet  my 
doom. 

Thou  hast  not  made  my  life  so  sweet  to  me. 
That  I the  King  should  greatly  care  to  live  ; 
For  thou  hast  spoilt  the  purpose  of  my  life. 
Bear  with  me  for  the  last  time  while  I show, 
Ev’n  for  thy  sake,  the  sin  which  thou  has 
sinn’d. 

For  when  the  Roman  left  us,  and  their  law 
Relax’d  its  hold  upon  us,  and  the  ways 
Were  fill’d  with  rapine,  here  and  there  a deed 
Of  prowess  done  redress’d  a random  wrong. 
But  I was  first  of  all  the  kings  who  drew' 

The  knighthood-errant  of  this  realm  and  all 
The  realms  together  under  me,  their  Head, 

In  that  fair  order  of  my  Table  Round, 

A glorious  company,  the  flower  of  men. 

To  serve  as  model  for  the  mighty  w'orld, 

And  be  the  fair  beginning  of  a time. 

I made  them  lay  their  hands  in  mine  and 
swear 

To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 
Their  conscience,  and  their  conscience  as 
their  King, 

To  break  the  heathen  and  uphold  the  Christ, 
To  ride  abroad  redressing  human  wrongs. 

To  speak  no  slander,  no,  nor  listen  to  it. 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity. 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her. 

And  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 
Until  they  won  her;  for  indeed  I knew 
Of  no  more  subtle  master  under  heaven 
Than  is  the  maiden  passion  for  a maid. 

Not  only  to  keep  down  the  base  in  man. 

But  teach  high  thought,  and  amiable  words 
And  courtliness,  and  the  desire  of  fame, 

And  love  of  truth,  and  all  that  makes  a man. 
And  all  this  throve  until  I wedded  thee  ! 
Believing  “lo  mine  helpmate,  one  to  feel 
My  purpose  and  rejoicing  in  my  joy.” 

Then  came  thy  shameful  sin  with  Lancelot ; 
Then  came  the  sin  of  Tristram  and  I soil; 
Then  others,  following  these  my  mightiest 
knights. 

And  drawing  foul  ensample  from  fair  names, 


209 

Sinn’d  also,  till  the  loathsome  opposite 
Of  all  my  heart  had  destined  did  obtain. 

And  all  thro’  thee  ! so  that  this  life  of  mine 
I guard  as  God’s  high  gift  from  scathe  and 
wrong. 

Not  greatly  care  to  lose ; but  rather  think 
How  sad  it  were  for  Arthur,  should  he  live. 
To  sit  once  more  within  his  lonely  hall. 

And  miss  the  wonted  number  of  my  knights. 
And  miss  to  hear  high  talk  of  noble  deeds 
As  in  the  golden  days  before  thy  sin. 

For  which  of  us,  who  might  be  left,  could 
speak 

Of  the  pure  heart,  nor  seem  to  glance  at  thee  ? 
And  in  thy  bow'ers  of  Camelot  or  of  Usk 
Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to 
room, 

And  I should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 
In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 

Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair. 

For  think  not,  tho’  thou  wouldst  not  love  thy 
lord. 

Thy  lord  has  wholly  lost  his  love  for  thee. 

I am  not  made  of  so  slight  elements. 

Yet  must  I leave  thee,  woman,  to  thy  shame. 

I hold  that  man  the  worst  of  public  foes 
Who  either  for  his  own  or  children’s  sake. 

To  save  his  blood  from  scandal,  lets  the  wife 
Whom  he  knows  false,  abide  and  rule  the 
house  : 

For  being  thro*  his  cowardice  allow’d 
Her  station,  taken  everywhere  for  pure, 

She  like  a new  disease,  unknown  to  men. 
Creeps,  no  precaution  used,  among  the  crowd. 
Makes  wicked  lightnings  of  her  eyes,  and 
saps 

The  fealty  of  our  friends,  and  stirs  the  pulse 
With  devil’s  leaps,  and  poisons  half  the 
young. 

Worst  of  the  worst  were  that  man  he  that 
reigns  ! 

Better  the  King’s  waste  hearth  and  aching 
heart 

Than  thou  reseated  in  thy  place  of  light. 

The  mockery  of  my  people,  and  their  bane.” 

He  paused,  and  in  the  pause  she  crept  an 
inch 

Nearer,  and  laid  her  hands  about  his  feet. 

Far  off  a solitary  trumpet  blew. 

Then  waiting  by  the  doors  the  war-horse 
neigh’d 

As  at  ^ friend’s  voice,  and  he  spake  again  : 

“ Yet  think  not  that  I come  to  urge  thy 
crimes, 

I did  not  come  to  curse  thee,  Guinevere, 

I,  whose  vast  pity  almost  makes  me  die 
To  see  thee,  laying  there  thy  golden  head. 

My  pride  in  happier  summers,  at  my  feet. 

The  wrath  which  forced  my  thoughts  on  that 
fierce  law. 

The  doom  of  treason  and  the  flaming  death, 
(When  first  I learnt  thee  hidden  here)  is  past. 
The  pang  — which  while  1 weigh’d  thy  heart 
with  one 

Too  wholly  true  to  dream  untruth  in  thee. 
Made  my  tears  burn  — is  also  past,  in  part. 


GUINEVERE. 


And  all  is  past,  the  sin  is  sinn’d,  and  I, 

Lo  ! 1 forgive  thee,  as  Eternal  God 
Forgives  ; do  thou  for  thine  own  soul  the  rest. 
But  how  to  take  last  leave  of  all  I loved  ? 

0 golden  hair,  with  which  I used  to  play 
Not  knowing  ! O imperial-moulded  form, 
And  beauty  such  as  never  woman  wore. 
Until  it  came  a kingdom’s  curse  with  thee  — 

1 cannot  touch  thy  lips,  they  are  not  mine. 
But  Lancelot’s  : nay,  they  never  were  the 

King’s. 

I cannot  take  thy  hand  ; that  too  is  flesh, 
And  in  the  flesh  thou  hast  sinn’d ; and  mine 
own  flesh. 

Here  looking  down  on  thine  polluted,  cries 
‘ 1 loathe  thee  ’ ; yet  not  less,  O Guinevere, 
For  I was  ever  virgin  save  for  thee. 

My  love  thro’  flesh  hath  wrought  into  my  life 
So  far,  that  my  doom  is,  1 love  thee  still. 

Let  no  man  dream  but  that  I love  thee  still. 
Perchance,  and  so  thou  purify  thy  soul. 

And  so  thou  lean  on  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Hereafter  in  that  world  where  all  are  pure 
We  two  may  meet  before  high  God,  and  thou 
Wilt  spring  to  me,  and  claim  me  thine,  and 
know 

I am  thine  husband  — not  a smaller  soul. 
Nor  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Leave  me  that, 
I charge  thee,  my  last  hope.  Now  must  I 
hence. 

Thro’  the  thick  night  I *hear  the  trumpet 
blow  : 

They  summon  me  their  King  to  lead  mine 
hosts 

Far  down  to  that  great  battle  in  the  west. 
Where  I must  strike  against  my  sister’s  son. 
Leagued  with  the  lords  of  the  White  Horse 
and  knights 

Once  mine,  and  strike  him  dead,  and  meet 
myself 

Death,  or  I know  not  what  mysterious  doom. 
And  thou  remaining  here  wilt  learn  the 
event ; 

But  hither  shall  I never  come  again. 

Never  lie  by  thy  side,  see  thee  no  more, 
Farewell!” 

And  while  she  grovell’d  at  his  feet. 
She  felt  the  King’s  breath  wander  o’er  her 
neck. 

And,  in  the  darkness  o’er  her  fallen  head. 
Perceived  the  waving  of  his  hands  that  blest. 

Then,  listening  till  those  armed  steps  were 
* gone. 

Rose  the  pale  Queen,  and  in  her  anguish 
found 

The  casement  : “ Peradventure,”  so  she 
thought, 

“ If  I might  see  his  face,  and  not  be  seen.” 
And  lo,  he  sat  on  horseback  at  the  door  ! 

And  near  him  the  sad  nuns  with  each  a light 
Stood,  and  he  gave  them  charge  about  the 
Queen, 

To  guard  and  foster  her  foreverrnore. 

And  while  he  spake  to  these  his  helm  was 
lower’d. 

To  which  for  crest  the  golden  dragon  clung 
Of  Britain  ; so  she  did  not  see  the  face, 


Which  then  was  as  an  angel’s,  but  she  saw. 
Wet  with  the  mists  and  smitten  by  the  lights, 
The  Dragon  of  the  great  Pendragonship 
Blaze,  making  all  the  night  a steam  of  fire. 
And  even  then  he  turn’d  ; and  more  and  more 
The  moony  vapor  rolling  round  the  King, 
Who  seem’d  the  phantom  of  a Giant  in  it, 
Enwound  him  fold  by  fold,and  made  him  gray 
And  grayer,  till  himself  became  as  mist 
Before  her,  moving  ghostlike  to  his  doom. 

Then  she  stretch’d  out  her  arms  and  cried 
aloud, 

“ O Arthur  ! ” there  her  voice  brake  sud- 
denly, 

Then  — as  a stream  that  spouting  from  a cliff 
Fails  in  mid-air,  but  gathering  at  the  base 
Re-makes  itself,  and  flashes  down  the  vale — 
Went  on  in  passionate  utterance. 

“Gone  — my  lord  ! 

Gone  thro’  my  sin  to  slay  and  to  be  slain  I 
And  he  forgave  me,  and  I could  not  speak. 
Farewell?  I should  have  answer’d  his  fare- 
well. 

His  mercy  choked  me.  Gone,  my  lord  the 
King, 

My  own  true  lord  1 how  dare  I call  him 
mine  ? 

The  shadow  of  another  cleaves  to  me. 

And  makes  me  one  pollution  : he,  the  King, 
Call’d  me  polluted  : shall  I kill  myself? 

What  help  in  that  ? I cannot  kill  my  sin, 

If  soul  be  soul ; nor  can  I kill  my  shame ; 

No,  nor  by  living  can  I live  it  down. 

The  days  will  grow  to  weeks,  the  weeks  to 
months. 

The  months  will  add  themselves  and  make 
the  years. 

The  years  will  roll  into  the  centuries, 

And  mine  will  ever  be  a name  of  scorn. 

I must  not  dwell  on  that  defeat  of  fame. 

Let  the  world  be  ; that  is  but  of  the  world. 
What  else  ? what  hope  ? I think  there  was  a 
hope. 

Except  he  mock’d  me  when  he  spake  of  hope ; 
His  hope  he  call’d  it ; but  he  never  mocks, 
For  mockery  is  the  fume  of  little  hearts. 

And  blessed  be  the  King,  who  hath  forgiven 
My  wickedness  lo  him,  and  left  me  hope 
That  in  mine  own  heart  I can  live  down  sin 
And  be  his  mate  hereafter  in  the  heavens 
Before  high  God.  Ah  great  and  gentle  lord. 
Who  wast,  as  is  the  conscience  of  a saint 
Among  his  warring  senses,  to  thy  knights  — 
To  whom  my  false  voluptuous  pride,  that 
took 

Full  easily  all  impressions  from  below. 

Would  not  look  up,  or  half-despised  the 
height 

To  which  I would  not  or  I could  not  climb 
I thought  I could  not  breathe  in  that  fine  air 
That  pure  severity  of  perfect  li^ht  — 

I wanted  warmth  and  color  which  I found 
In  Lancelot  — now  I see  thee  what  thou  art. 
Thou  art  the  highest  and  most  human  too. 
Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.  Is  there  none 
Will  tell  the  King  I love  him  tho’  so  late  ? 
Now  — ere  he  goes  to  the  great  Battle  ? none: 


ENOCH 

Myself  must  tell  him  in  that  purer  life. 

But  now  it  were  too  daring.  Ah  my  God, 

What  might  I not  have  made  of  thy  fair 
world, 

Had  I but  loved  thy  highest  creature  here? 

It  was  my  duty  to  have  loved  the  highest: 

It  surely  was  my  profit  had  I known  : 

It  would  have  been  my  pleasure  had  I seen. 

We  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we 
see  it, 

Not  Lancelot,  nor  another.’* 

Here  her  hand 

Grasp’d,  made  her  veil  her  eyes  : she  look’d 
and  saw 

The  novice,  weeping,  suppliant,  and  said  to 
her, 

“ Yea,  little  maid,  for  am  I not  forgiven  ? 

Then  glancing  up  beheld  the  holy  nuns 

All  round  her,  weeping ; and  her  heart  was 
loosed 

Within  her,  and  she  wept  with  these  and  said  : 

**  Ye  know  me  then,  that  wicked  one,  who 
broke 

The  vast  design  and  purpose  of  the  King 

0 shut  me  round  with  narrowing  iiunnery- 

wall^ 

Meek  maidens,  from  the  voices  crying 
‘ Shame.* 

1 must  not  scorn  myself : he  loves  me  still. 

Let  no  one  dream  but  that  he  loves  me  still. 

So  let  me,  if  you  do  not  shudder  at  me 

Nor  shun  to  call  me  sister,  dwell  with  you  : 


A RDEN  2H 

Wear  black  and  white,  and  be  a nun  like  you  ; 
Fast  with  your  fasts,  not  feasting  with  your 
feasts ; 

Grieve  with  your  griefs,  not  grieving  at  your 

* -I  t. 

But  not  rejoicing  ; mingle  with  your  rites ; 
Pray  and  be  prayed  for;  lie  before  your 
shrines ; 

Do  each  low  office  of  your  holy  house ; 

Walk  your  dim  cloister,  and  distribute  dole 
To  poor  sick  people,  richer  in  his  eyes 
Who  ransom’d  us,  and  haler  too  than  I ; 
And  treat  their  loathsome  hurts  and  heal 
mine  own  ; 

And  so  wear  out  in  almsdeed  and  in  prayer 
The  sombre  close  of  that  voluptuous  day, 
Which  wrought  the  ruin  of  my  lord  the  King.” 

She  said ; they  took  her  to  themselves;  and 
she 

Still  hoping,  fearing  “ Is  it  yet  too  late?  ” 
Dwelt  with  them,  till  in  time  their  Abbess 
died. 

Then  she,  for  her  good  deeds  and  her  pure 
life, 

And  for  the  power  of  ministration  in  her, 

And  likewise  for  the  high  rank  she  had 
borne, 

Was  chosen  Abbess,  there,  an  Abbess  lived 
For  three  brief  years,  and  there,  an  Abbess, 
past 

To  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace. 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Long  lines  of  cliff  breaking  have  left  a 
chasm  ; 

And  in  the  chasm  are  foam  and  yellow  sands  ; 
Beyond,  red  roofs  about  a narrow  wharf 
In  cluster  ; then  a moulder’d  church  ; and 
higher 

A long  street  climbs  to  one  tall-tower’d  mill ; 
And  high  in  heaven  behind  it  a gray  down 
With  Danish  barrows ; and  a hazel-wood, 
By  autumn  nutters  haunted,  flourishes 
Green  in  a cuplike  hollow  of  the  down. 

Here  on  this  beach  a hundred  years  ago, 
Three  children  of  three  houses,  Annie  Lee, 
The  prettiest  little  damsel  in  the  port, 

And  Philip  Ray,  the  miller’s  only  son. 

And  Enoch  Arden,  a rough  sailor’s  lad 
Made  orphan  by  a w'inter  shipwreck,  play’d 
Among  the  waste  and  lumber  of  the  shore, 
Hard  coils  of  cordage,  swarthy  fishing-nets, 
Anchors  of  rusty  fluke,  and  boats  up-drawn  ; 
And  built  their  castles  of  dissolving  sand 
To  watch  them  overflow’d,  or  following  up 
And  flying  the  white  breaker,  daily  left 
The  little  footprint  daily  wash’d  away. 


A Tiarrow  cave  ran  in  beneath  the  cliff : 

In  this  the  children  play’d  at  keeping  house. 
Enoch  was  host  one  day.  Philip  the  next, 
While  Annie  still  was  mistress  ; but  at  times 
Enoch  would  hold  possession  for  a week  : 

“ This  is  my  house  and  this  my  little  wife.” 
“ Mine  too,”  said  Philip,  “ turn  and  turn 
about”  : 

When,  if  they  quarrell’d,  Enoch  stronger- 
made 

Was  master:  then  would  Philip,  his  blue 
eyes 

All  flooded  with  the  helpless  wrath  of  tears. 
Shriek  out,  “I  hate  you,  Enoch,”  and  at 
this 

The  little  wife  would  weep  for  company. 

And  pray  them  not  to  quarrel  for  her  sake, 
And  say  she  would  be  little  wife  to  both. 

But  when  the  dawn  of  rosy  childhood  past, 
And  the  new  warmth  of  life’s  ascending  sun 
Was  felt  by  either,  either  fixt  his  heart 
On  that  one  girl ; and  Enoch  spoke  his  love, 
But  Philip  loved  in  silence  ; and  the  girl 
Seem’d  kinder  unto  Philip  than  to  him  ; 


212  ENOCH 

But  she  loved  Enoch  ; tho’  she  knew  it  not, 
And  would  if  ask’d  deny  it.  Enoch  set 
A purpose  evermore  belore  his  eyes, 

To  hoard  all  savings  to  the  uttermost, 

To  purchase  his  own  boat,  and  make  a home 
For  Annie : and  so  prosper’d  that  at  last 
A luckier  or  a bolder  fisherman, 

A caretuller  in  peril,  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 
Than  Enoch.  Likewise  had  he  served  a year 
On  board  a merchantman,  and  made  himself 
Full  sailor;  and  he  thrice  had  pluck’d  a life 
From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-stream- 
ing seas : 

And  all  men  look’d  upon  him  favorably  : 

And  ere  he  touch’d  his  one-and-twentieth 
May, 

He  purchased  his  own  boat,  and  made  a 
home 

For  Annie,  neat  and  nestlike,  half-way  up 
The  narrow  street  that  clamber’d  toward  the 
mill. 

Then,  on  a golden  autumn  eventide, 

The  younger  people  making  holiday. 

With  bag  and  sack  and  basket,  great  and 
small, 

Went  nutting  to  the  hazels,  Philip  stay’d 
(His  father  lying  sick  and  needing  him) 

An  hour  behind ; but  as  he  climb’d  the  hill. 
Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  saw  the  pair, 
Enoch  and  Annie,  sitting  hand-in-hand. 

His  large  gray  eyes  and  weather-beaten  face 
All-kindled  by  a still  and  sacred  fire. 

That  burned  as  on  an  altar.  Philip  look’d. 
And  in  their  eyes  and  faces  read  his  doom  ; 
Then,  as  their  faces  drew  together,  groan’d 
And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood  ; 
There,  while  the  rest  were  loud  with  merry- 
making, 

Had  his  dark  hour  unseen,  and  rose  and  past 
Bearing  a lifelong  hunger  in  his  heart. 

So  these  were  wed,  and  merrily  rang  the 
bells, 

And  merrily  ran  the  years,  seven  happy 
years. 

Seven  happy  years  of  health  and  compe- 
tence. 

And  mutual  love  and  honorable  toil ; 

With  children  ; first  a daughter.  In  him 
woke. 

With  his  first  babe’s  first  cry,  the  noble  wish 
To  save  all  earnings  to  the  uttermost, 

And  give  his  child  a better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  hers  ; a wish  renew’d. 
When  two  years  after  came  a boy  to  be 
The  rosv  idol  of  her  solitudes. 

While  Enoch  w'as  abroad  on  wrathful  seas, 
Or  often  journeying  landward  ; for  in  truth 
Enoch’s  white  horse,  and  Enoch’s  ocean- 
spoil 

In  ocean-smelling  osier,  and  his  face, 
Rough-redden’d  with  a thousand  winter- 
gales. 

Not  only  to  the  market-cross  were  known, 


ARDEN. 

But  in  the  leafy  lanes  behind  the  down. 

Far  as  the  portal-warding  lion-whelp, 

And  peacock-yewtree  of  the  lonely  Hall, 
Whose  Friday  fare  was  Enoch’s  ministering. 

Then  came  a change,  as  all  things  human 
change. 

Ten  miles  to  northward  of  the  narrow  port 
Open’d  a larger  haven  : thither  used 
Enoch  at  limes  to  go  by  land  or  sea  ; 

And  once  when  there,  and  clambering  on  a 
mast 

In  harbor,  by  mischance  he  slii>t  and  fell  : 

A limb  was  broken  when  they  lifted  him  ; 
And  while  he  lay  recovering  there,  his  wife 
Bore  him  another  son,  a sickly  one  : 

Another  hand  crept  too  across  his  trade 
Taking  her  bread  and  theirs  : and  on  him 
fell, 

Altho’  a grave  and  staid  God-fearing  man. 
Vet  lying  thus  inactive,  doubt  ai  d gloom. 

He  seem’d,  as  in  a nightmare  of  the  night. 
To  see  his  childem  leading  evermore 
Low  miserable  lives  of  hand-to-mouth. 

And  her,  he  loved,  a beggar  ; then  he  pray’d 
“ Save  them  from  this,  whatever  comes  to 
me.” 

And  while  he  pray’d,  the  master  of  that  ship 
Enoch  had  served  in,  hearing  his  mischance. 
Came,  for  he  knew  the  man  and  valued 
him. 

Reporting  of  his  vessel  China-bound, 

And  wanting  yet  a boatswain.  Would  he  go  ? 
There  yet  were  many  w^eeks  before  she  sail’d. 
Sail’d  from  this  port.  Would  Enoch  have 
the  place  ? 

And  Enoch  all  at  once  assented  to  it. 
Rejoicing  at  that  answer  to  his  prayer. 

So  now  that  shadow  of  mischance  appear’d 
No  graver  than  as  when  some  little  cloud 
Cuts  off  the  fiery  highw^ay  of  the  sun. 

And  isles  a light  in  the  offing : yet  the  w'ife  — 
When  he  was  gone  — the  children  — what  to 
do? 

Then  Enoch  lay  long-pondering  on  his 
plans ; 

To  sell  the  boat — and  j'et  he  loved  her 
well  — 

How  many  a rough  sea  had  he  weather’d  in 
her ! 

He  knew  her,  as  a horseman  knows  his 
horse  — 

And  yet  to  sell  her — then  with  what  she 
brought 

Buy  goods  and  stores — set  Annie  forth  in 
trade 

With  all  that  seamen  needed  or  their  w ives  — 
So  might  she  keep  the  house  while  he  was 

Should  he  not  trade  himself  out  yonder?  go 
This  voyage  more  than  once  ? yea  twice  or 
thrice  — 

As  oft  as  needed  — last,  returning  nch, 
Become  the  master  of  a larger  craft, 

With  fuller  profits  lead  an  easier  life, 

Have  all  his  pretty  young  ones  educated, 
And  pass  his  days  in  peace  among  his  own. 


ENOCH 

Thus  Enoch  in  his  heart  determined  all : 
Then  moving  homeward  came  on  Annie  pale, 
Nursing  the  sickly  babe,  her  latest-bom. 
Forward  she  started  with  a happy  cry. 

And  laid  the  feeble  infant  in  his  arms  ; 
Whom  Enoch  took,  and  handled  all  his 
limbs. 

Appraised  his  weight,  and  fondled  fatherlike. 
But  had  no  heart  to  break  his  purposes 
To  Annie,  till  the  morrow,  when  he  spoke. 

Then  first  since  Enoch’s  golden  ring  had 
girt 

Her  finger,  Annie  fought  against  his  will ; 
Yet  not  with  brawling  opposition  she. 

But  manifold  entreaties,  many  a tear. 

Many  a sad  kiss  by  day  by  night  renew’d 
(Sure  that  all  evil  would  come  out  of  it) 
Besought  him,  supplicating,  if  he  cared 
For  her  or  his  dear  children,  not  to  go. 

He  not  for  his  own  self  caring  but  her. 

Her  and  her  children,  let  her  plead  in  vain  ; 
So  grieving  held  his  will,  and  bore  it  thro’. 

For  Enoch  parted  with  his  old  sea-friend. 
Bought  Annie  goods  and  stores,  and  set  his 
hand 

To  fit  their  little  streetward  sitting-room 
With  shelf  and  corner  for  the  goods  and  stores. 
So  all  day  long  till  Enoch’s  last  at  home. 
Shaking  their  pretty  cabin,  hammer  and  axe. 
Auger  and  saw,  while  Annie  seem’d  to  hear 
Her  own  death-scaffold  raising,  shrill’d  and 
rang. 

Till  this  was  ended,  and  his  careful  hand,  — 
The  space  was  narrow,  — having  order’d  all 
Almost  as  neat  and  close  as  Nature  packs 
Her  blossom  or  her  seedling,  paused  ; and  he. 
Who  needs  would  work  for  Annie  to  the  last, 
Ascending  tired,  heavily  slept  till  morn. 

And  Enoch  faced  this  morning  of  farewell 
Brightly  and  boldly.  All  his  Annie’s  fears. 
Save  as  his  Annie’s,  were  a laughter  to  him. 
Yet  Enoch  as  a brave  God-fearing  man 
Bow’d  himself  down,  and  in  that  mystery 
Where  God-in-man  is  one  with  man-in-God, 
Pray’d  for  a blessing  on  his  wife  and  babes 
Whatever  came  to  him  : and  then  he  said, 

“ Annie,  this  voyage  by  the  grace  of  God 
Will  bring  fair  weather  yet  to  all  of  us. 

Keep  a clean  hearth  and  a clear  fire  for  me. 
For  I ’ll  be  back,  my  girl,  before  you  know 
it.” 

Then  lightly  rocking  baby’s  cradle,  and  he. 
This  pretty,  puny,  weakly  little  one,  — 

Nay  — for  I love  him  all  the  better  for  it  — 
God  bless  him,  he  shall  sit  upon  my  knees 
And  I will  tell  him  tales  of  foreign  parts. 

And  make  him  merry  when  I come  home 
again. 

Come  Annie,  come,  cheer  up  before  I go.” 

Him  running  on  thus  hopefully  she  heard, 
And  almost  hoped  herself ; but  when  he  turn’d 
The  current  of  his  talk  to  graver  things 
In  sailor  fashion  roughly  sermonizing 
On  providence  and  trust  in  Heaven,  she 
heard,  • 


ARDEN.  313 

Heard  and  not  heard  him ; as  the  village 
girl, 

Who  sets  her  pitcher  underneath  the  spring, 
Musing  on  him  that  used  to  fill  it  for  her. 
Hears  and  not  hears,  and  lets  it  overflow. 

At  length  she  spoke,  *‘0  Enoch,  you  are 
wise ; 

And  yet  for  all  your  wisdom  well  know  I 
That  I shall  look  upon  your  face  no  more.” 

“Well  then,”  said  Enoch,  “I  shall  look 
on  yours. 

Annie,  the  ship  I sail  in  passes  here 
(He  named  the  day) ; get  you  a seaman’s 
glass. 

Spy  out  my  face,  and  laugh  at  all  your  fears.” 

But  when  the  last  of  those  last  moments 
came, 

“ Annie,  my  girl,  cheer  up,  be  comforted. 
Look  to  the  babes,  and  till  I come  again. 
Keep  everything  shipshape,  for  I must  go. 
And  fear  no  more  for  me ; or  if  you  fear 
Cast  all  your  cares  on  God ; that  anchor  holds. 
Is  He  not  yonder  in  those  uttermost 
Parts  of  the  morning  ? if  I flee  to  these 
Can  I go  from  Him  ? and  the  sea  is  His, 

The  sea  is  His : He  made  it.” 

Enoch  rose. 

Cast  his  strong  arms  about  his  drooping  wife. 
And  kiss’d  his  wonder-stricken  little  ones; 
But  for  the  third,  the  sickly  one,  who  slept 
After  a night  of  feverous  wakefulness. 

When  Annie  would  have  raised  him  Enoch 
said, 

“ Wake  him  not ; let  him  sleep  ; how  should 
the  child 

Remember  this  ? ” and  kiss’d  him  in  his  cot. 
But  Annie  from  her  baby’s  forehead  dipt 
A tiny  curl,  and  gave  it : this  he  kept 
Thro’  all  his  future  ; but  now  hastily  caught 
His  bundle,  waved  his  hand,  and  went  his 
way. 

She  when  the  day,  that  Enoch  mention’d, 
came. 

Borrow’d  a glass,  but  all  in  vain  : perhaps 
She  could  not  fix  the  glass  to  suit  her  eye  ; 
Perhaps  her  eye  was  dim,  hand  tremulous  ; 
She  saw  him  not : and  while  he  stood  on  deck 
Waving,  the  moment  and  the  vessel  past. 

Ev’n  to  the  last  dip  of  the  vanishing  sail 
She  watch'd  it,  and  departed  weeping  for 
him  ; 

Then,  tho’  she  mourn’d  his  absence  as  his 
grave. 

Set  her  sad  will  no  less  to  chime  with  his, 

But  throve  not  in  her  trade,  not  being  bred 
To  barter,  nor  compensating  the  want 
By  shrewdness,  neither  capable  of  lies, 

Nor  asking  overmuch  and  taking  less. 

And  still  foreboding  “ What  would  Enoch 
say?” 

For  more  than  once,  in  days  of  difficulty 
And  pressure,  had  she  sold  her  wares  for  less 


214  ENOCH 

Than  what  she  gave  In  buying  what  she  sold : 
She  fail’d  and  sadden’d  knowing  it ; and  thus, 
Expectant  of  that  news  which  never  came, 
Gain’d  for  her  own  a scanty  sustenance, 

And  lived  a life  of  silent  melancholy. 

Now  the  third  child  was  sickly  born  and 
grew 

Yet  sicklier,  tho’  the  mother  cared  for  it 
With  all  a mother’s  care  : nevertheless. 
Whether  her  business  often  call’d  her  from  it. 
Or  thro’  the  want  of  what  it  needed  most. 

Or  means  to  pay  the  voice  who  best  could  tell 
What  most  it  needed  — howsoe’er  it  was. 
After  a lingering,  — ere  she  was  aware,  — 
Like  the  caged  bird  escaping  suddenly, 

The  little  innocent  soul  flitted  away. 

In  that  same  week  when  Annie  buried  it, 
Philip's  true  heart,  which  hunger’d  for  her 
peace 

(Since  Enoch  left  he  had  not  look’d  upon 
her). 

Smote  him,  as  having  kept  aloof  so  long. 

Surely,”  said  Philip,  “ I may  see  her  now. 
May  be  some  little  comfort  ” ; therefore  went, 
Past  thro’  the  solitary  room  in  front. 

Paused  for  a moment  at  an  inner  door, 

'I'hen  struck  it  thrice,  and,  no  one  opening. 
Enter’d  ; but  Annie,  seated  with  her  grief. 
Fresh  from  the  burial  of  her  little  one, 

(Jared  not  to  look  on  any  human  face, 

But  turn’d  her  own  toward  the  wall  and 
wept. 

Then  Philip  standing  up  said  falteringly, 
“Annie,  I came  to  ask  a favor  of  you.” 

He  spoke  ; the  passion  in  her  moan’d  rc- 


As  I am  ! ” half  abash’d  him  ; yet  unask’d. 
His  bashfulness  and  tenderness  at  war, 

He  sets  himself  beside  her,  saying  to  her : 

“ I came  to  speak  to  you  of  what  he 
wish’d, 

Enoch,  your  husband  : I have  ever  said 
You  chose  the  best  among  us  — a strong 
man  ; 

For  where  he  fixt  his  heart  he  set  his  hand 
To  do  the  thing  he  will’d,  and  bore  it  thro’. 
And  wherefore  did  he  go  this  weary  way. 
And  leave  you  lonely  ? not  to  see  the  w orld  — 
For  pleasure?  — nay,  but  for  the  where- 
withal 

To  give  his  babes  a better  bringing-up 
Than  his  had  been,  or  yours  : that  was  his 
wish. 

And  if  he  come  again,  vext  will  he  be 
To  find  the  precious  morning  hours  were  lost. 
And  it  would  vex  him  even  in  his  grave. 

If  he  could  know  his  babes  were  running 
w'ild 

Like  colts  about  the  waste.  So,  Annie, 
now  — 

Have  w'e  not  known  each  other  all  our  lives? 
f do  beseech  you  by  the  love  you  bear 
Him  and  his  children  not  to  say  me  nay  — 


ARDEN. 

For,  if  you  will,  when  Enoch  comes  again 
Why  then  he  shall  repay  me  — if  you  will, 
Annie  — for  I am  rich  and  well-to-do. 

Now  let  me  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school : 
This  is  the  favor  that  1 came  to  ask.” 

Then  Annie  with  her  brows  against  the 
wall 

Answer’d,  “ I cannot  look  you  in  the  face  ; 

I seem  so  foolish  and  so  broken  down  ; 
When  you  came  in  my  sorrow  broke  me 
down  ; 

And  now  I think  your  kindness  breaks  me 
down  ; 

But  Enoch  lives  ; that  is  borne  in  on  me  ; 
He  will  repay  you  : money  can  be  repaid  ; 
Not  kindness  such  as  yours.” 

And  Philip  ask’d 
“Then  you  will  let  me,  Annie  ? ” 

There  she  turn’d. 
She  rose,  and  fixt  her  swimming  eyes  upon 
him. 

And  dwelt  a moment  on  his  kindly  face, 

1 hen  calling  dow'n  a blessing  on  his  head 
Caught  at  his  hand  and  wrung  it  passion- 
ately. 

And  past  into  the  little  garth  beyond. 

So  lifted  up  in  spirit  he  moved  away. 

Then  Philip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school. 
And  bought  them  needful  books,  and  every 
way. 

Like  one  who  does  his  duty  by  his  own, 
Made  himself  theirs  ; and  tho’  for  Annie’s 
sake, 

Fearing  the  lazy  gossip  of  the  port. 

He  oft  denied  his  heart  his  dearest  wish. 

And  seldom  crost  her  threshold,  yet  he  sent 
Gifts  by  the  children,  garden-herbs  and  fruit. 
The  late  and  early  roses  from  his  wall, 

Or  conies  from  the  down,  and  now  and  then, 
With  some  pretext  of  fineness  in  the  meal 
To  save  the  offence  of  charitable,  flour 
From  his  tall  mill  that  whistled  on  the  waste. 

But  Philip  did  not  fathom  Annie’s  mind  : 
Scarce  could  the  woman  when  he  came  upon 
her. 

Out  of  full  heart  and  boundless  gratitude 
Light  on  a broken  word  to  thank  him  with. 
But  Philip  was  her  children’s  all-in-all  ; 
P>om  distant  corners  of  the  street  they  ran 
To  greet  his  hearty  welcome  heartily  ; 

Lords  of  his  house  and  of  his  mill  w'ere  they  ; 
Worried  his  passive  ear  with  petty  wrongs 
Or  pleasures,  hung  upon  him,  play’d  with 
him 

And  call’d  him  Father  Philip.  Philip  gain’d 
As  Enoch  lost ; for  Enoch  seem’d  to  them 
Uncertain  as  a vision  or  a dream. 

Faint  as  a figure  seen  in  early  dawn 
Down  at  the  far  end  of  an  avenue, 

Going  ye  know  not  where  ; and  so  ten  years. 
Since  Enoch  left  his  hearth  and  native  land, 
Fled  forward,  and  no  news  of  Enoch  came. 


“Then  Pliilip  put  the  boy  and  girl  to  school, 
And  bought  them  needful  books.” 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


It  chanced  one  evening  Annie’s  children 
long’d 

To  go  with  others,  nutting  to  the  wood, 

And  Annie  would  go  with  them  ; then  they 
begg’d 

For  Father  Philip  (as  they  call’d  him)  too  : 
Him,  like  the  working  bee  in  blossom-dust, 
Blanch’d  with  his  mill,  they  found  ; and  say- 
ing to  him. 

Come  with  us  Father  Philip,”  he  denied  ; 
But  when  the  children  pluck’d  at  him  to  go. 
He  laugh’d,  and  yielded  readily  to  their  wish, 
For  was  not  Annie  with  them  ? and  they  went. 

But  after  scaling  half  the  weary  down. 

Just  where  the  prone  edge  of  the  wood  began 
To  feather  toward  the  hollow,  all  her  force 
Fail’d  her  ; and  sighing  “ Let  me  rest  ” she 
said : 

So  Philip  rested  with  her  well-content  ; 
While  all  the  younger  ones  with  jubilant 
cries 

Broke  from  their  elders,  and  tumultuously 
Down  thro’  the  whitening  hazels  made  a 
plunge 

To  the  bottom,  and  dispersed,  and  bent  or 
broke 

The  lithe  reluctant  boughs  to  tear  away 
Their  tawny  clusters,  crying  to  each  other 
And  calling,  here  and  there,  about  the  wood. 

But  Philip  sitting  at  her  side  forgot 
Her  presence,  and  remember'd  one  dark  hour 
Here  in  this  w’ood,  when  like  a wounded  life 
He  crept  into  the  shadow : at  last  he  said 
Lifting  his  honest  forehead,  “ Listen,  Annie, 
How  merry  they  are  down  yonder  in  the 
wood.” 

“Tired,  Annie?”  for  she  did  not  speak  a 
word. 

“ Tired  ? ” but  her  face  had  fall’n  upon  her 
hands ; 

At  which,  as  with  a kind  of  anger  in  him, 
“The  ship  was  lost,”  he  said,  “ the  ship  was 
lost  ! 

No  more  of that ! why  should  you  kill  yourself 
And  make  them  orphans  quite  ? ” And  Annie 
said, 

“ I thought  not  of  it : but  — I know  not  why  — 
Their  voices  make  me  feel  so  solitary.” 

Then  Philip  comingsomewhat closer  spoke. 
“ Annie,  there  is  a thing  upon  my  mind, 

And  it  has  been  upon  my  mind  so  long. 

That  tho’  I know  not  when  it  first  came  there, 
1 know  that  it  will  out  at  last.  O Annie, 

It  is  beyond  all  hope,  against  all  chance. 
That  he  who  left  you  ten  long  years  ago 
Should  still  be  living;  well  then  — let  me 
speak ; 

I grieve  to  see  you  poor  and  w'anting  help  : 

I cannot  help  you  as  I wish  to  do 
Unless  — they  say  that  women  are  so  quick  — 
Perhaps  you  know  what  I would  have  you 
know  — 

I wish  you  for  my  wife.  I fain  would  prove 
A father  to  your  children  : I do  think 
They  love  me  as  a father : I am  sure 


That  I love  them  as  if  they  were  mine  own  ; 
And  I believe,  if  you  were  fast  my  wife, 

That  after  all  these  sad  uncertain  years. 

We  might  be  still  as  happy  as  God  grants 
To  any  of  His  creatures.  Think  upon  it : 
For  I am  well-to-do  — no  kin,  no  care. 

No  burthen,  save  my  care  for  you  and  yours  ; 
And  we  have  known  each  other  all  our  lives. 
And  I have  loved  you  longer  than  you  know.” 

Then  answer’d  Annie ; tenderly  she  spoke: 
“ You  have  been  as  God’s  good  angel  in  our 
house. 

God  bless  you  for  it,  God  reward  you  for  it, 
Philip,  with  something  happier  than  myself. 
Can  one  love  twice  ? can  you  be  ever  loved 
As  Enoch  was?  what  is  it  that  you  ask  ? ” 

“ I am  content,”  he  answer’d,  “to  be  loved 
A little  after  Enoch.”  “ O,  she  cried, 
Scared  as  it  were,  “ dear  Philip,  wait  a while  : 
If  Enoch  comes — but  Enoch  will  not  come  — 
Yet  wait  a year,  a year  is  not  so  long  ; 

Surely  I shall  be  wiser  in  a year ; 

0 wait  a little  ! ” Philip  sadly  said, 

“Annie,  as  I have  waited  all  my  life 

1 well  may  wait  a little.”  “ Nay,”  she  cried, 
“ I am  bound  : you  have  my  promise  — in  a 

year  ; 

Will  you  not  bide  your  year  as  I bide  mine  ? ” 
And  Philip  answer’d,  “ 1 will  bide  my  year.” 

Here  both  were  mute,  till  Philipglancing  up 
Beheld  the  dead  flame  of  the  fallen  day 
Pass  from  the  Danish  barrow  overhead  ; 
Then  fearing  night  and  chill  for  Annie  rose. 
And  sent  his  voice  beneath  him  thro’  the 
wood. 

Up  came  the  children  laden  with  their  spoil ; 
Then  all  descended  to  the  port,  and  there 
At  Annie’s  door  he  paused  and  gave  his 
hand,  • 

Saying  gently,  “Annie,  when  I spoke  to  you, 
That  was  your  hour  of  w'eakness.  I was 
wrong. 

I am  always  bound  to  you,  but  you  are  free.” 
Then  Annie  weeping  answer’d,  “ I am 
bound.” 

She  spoke  ; and  in  one  moment  as  it  were, 
While  yetshe  went  about  her  household  ways, 
Ev’n  as  she  dwelt  upon  his  latest  words, 
That  he  had  loved  her  longer  than  she  knew. 
That  autumn  into  autumn  flash’d  again. 

And  there  he  stood  once  more  before  her  face, 
Claiming  her  promise.  “ Is  it  a year?  ” she 
ask’d. 

“Yes,  if  the  nuts,”  he  said,  “be  ripe  again  : 
Come  out  and  see.”  But  she  — she  put 
him  off — 

So  much  to  look  to  — such  a change  — a 
month  — 

Give  her  a month  — she  knew  that  she  was 
bound  — 

A month  — no  more.  Then  Philip  with  his 
eyes 

Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a little  like  a drunkard’s  hand, 

“ Take  your  own  time,  Annie,  take  your  own 
time.” 


2i6  ENOCH 

And  Annie  could  have  wept  for  pity  of  him  ; 
And  yet  she  held  him  on  delayingly 
With  many  a scarce-believable  excuse, 
Trying  his  truth  and  his  long  sufferance, 

Till  half-another  year  had  slipt  away. 

By  this  the  lazy  gossips  of  the  port, 
Abhorrent  of  a calculation  crost. 

Began  to  chafe  as  at  a personal  wrong. 

Some  thought  that  Philip  did  but  trifle  with 
her ; 

Some  that  she  but  held  off  to  draw  him  on  ; 
And  others  laugh’d  at  her  and  Philip  too, 

As  simple  folk  that  knew  not  their  own 
minds ; 

And  one,  in  whom  all  evil  fancies  clung 
Like  serpent  eggs  together,  laughingly 
Would  hint  at  worse  in  either.  Her  own  son 
Was  silent,  tho’  he  often  look’d  his  wish  ; 
But  evermore  the  daughter  presl  upon  her 
To  wed  the  man  so  dear  to  all  of  them 
And  lift  the  household  out  of  poverty  ; 

And  Philip’s  rosy  face  contracting  grew 
Careworn  and  wan  ; and  all  these  things  fell 
on  her 

Sharp  as  reproach. 

At  last  one  night  it  chanced 
That  Annie  could  not  sleep,  but  earnestly 
Pray’d  for  a sign  “ my  Enoch,  is  he  gone  ? ” 
Then  compass’d  round  by  the  blind  wall  of 
night 

Brook’d  not  the  expectant  terror  of  her  heart, 
Started  from  bed,  and  struck  herself  a light. 
Then  desperately  seized  the  holy  Book, 
Suddenly  set  it  wide  to  find  a sign. 

Suddenly  put  her  finger  on  the  text, 

“ Under  a palmtree.”  That  was  nothing  to 
her  : 

No  meaning  there  : she  closed  the  book  and 
slept : 

When  lo  ! her  Enoch  sitting  on  a height. 
Under  a palmtree,  over  him  the  Sun  : 

“He  is  gone,”  she  thought,  “ he  is  happy, 
he  is  singing 

Hosanna  in  the  highest : yonder  shines 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  these  be 
palms 

Whereof  the  happy  people  strowing  cried 
‘ Hosanna  in  the  highest  ! ’ ” Here  she  woke. 
Resolved,  sent  for  him  and  said  wildly  to  him, 
“ There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  w'ed.” 
“ Then  for  God’s  sake,”  he  answer’d,  “ both 
our  sakes, 

So  you  will  wed  me,  let  it  be  at  once.” 

So  these  were  wed  and  merrily  rang  the 
bells, 

Merrily  rang  the  bells  and  they  were  wed. 
But  never  merrily  beat  Annie’s  heart. 

A footstep  seem’d  to  fall  beside  her  path. 

She  knew  not  whence  ; a whisper  on  her  ear. 
She  knew  not  what ; nor  loved  she  to  be  left 
Alone  at  home,  nor  ventured  out  alone. 
What  ail’d  her  then,  that  ere  she  enter’d, 
often 

Her  hand  dwelt  lingeringly  on  the  latch, 
Fearing  to  enter  ; Philip  thought  he  knew  : 


ARDEN, 

Such  doubts  and  fears  were  common  to  her 
state. 

Being  with  child  : but  when  her  child  was 
born. 

Then  her  new  child  was  as  herself  renew’d. 
Then  the  new  mother  came  about  her  heart. 
Then  her  good  Philip  was  her  all-in-all. 

And  that  mysterious  instinct  wholly  died. 

And  where  was  Enoch?  Prosperously 
sail’d 

The  ship  “Good  Fortune,”  tho’  at  setting 
forth 

The  Biscay,  roughly  ridging  eastward,  shook 
And  almost  overwhelm’d  her,  yet  unvext 
She  slipt  across  the  summer  of  the  world. 
Then  after  a long  tumble  about  the  Cape 
And  frequent  interchange  of  foul  and  fair. 
She  passing  thro’  the  summer  world  again, 
The  breath  of  Heaven  came  continually 
And  sent  her  sweetly  by  the  golden  isles, 

Till  silent  in  her  oriental  haven. 

There  Enoch  traded  for  himself,  and  bought 
Quaint  monsters  for  the  market  of  those 
times, 

A gilded  dragon,  also,  for  the  babes. 

Less  lucky  her  home-voyage  : at  first  in- 
deed 

Thro’  many  a fair  sea-circle,  day  by  day, 
Scarce-rocking,  her  full  busted  figure-head 
Stared  o’er  the  ripple  feathering  from  her 
bows  : 

Then  follow’d  calms,  and  then  winds  variable. 
Then  baffling,  a long  course  of  them  ; and 
last 

Storm,  such  as  drove  her  under  moonless 
heavens 

Till  hard  upon  the  cry  of  “breakers  ” came 
The  crash  of  ruin,  and  the  loss  of  all 
But  Enoch  and  tw'o  others.  Half  the  night. 
Buoy’d  upon  floating  tackle  and  broken  spars. 
These  drifted,  stranding  on  an  isle  at  morn 
Rich,  but  the  loneliest  in  a lonely  sea. 

No  want  was  there  of  human  sustenance. 
Soft  fruitage,  mighty  nuts,  and  nourishing 
roots ; 

Ncr  save  for  pity  was  it  hard  to  take 
The  helpless  life  so  wild  that  it  was  tame. 
There  in  a seaward-gazing  mountain-gorge 
They  built,  and  thatch’d  with  leaves  of  palm, 
a hut. 

Half  hut,  half  native  cavern.  So  the  three. 
Set  in  this  Eden  of  all  plenteousness. 

Dwelt  with  eternal  summer,  ill-content. 

For  one,  the  youngest,  hardly  more  than 
boy. 

Hurt  in  that  night  of  sudden  ruin  and  wreck, 
Lay  lingering  out  a three-years’  death-in-life. 
They  could  not  leave  him.  After  he  was 
gone. 

The  two  remaining  found  a fallen  stem  ; 

And  Enoch’s  comrade,  careless  of  himself. 
Fire-hollowing  this  in  Indian  fashion,  fell 


ENOCH  ARDEN. 


Sun-stricken,  and  that  other  lived  alone. 

In  those  two  deaths  he  read  God’s  warning 
“wait.” 

The  mountain  wooded  to  the  peak,  the 
lawns 

And  winding  glades  high  up  like  ways  to 
Heaven, 

The  slender  coco’s  drooping  crown  of  plumes, 
The  lightning  Hash  of  insect  and  of  bird. 

The  lustre  of  the  long  convolvuluses 
That  coil’d  around  the  stately  stems,  and  ran 
Ev’n  to  the  limit  of  the  land,  the  glows 
And  glories  of  the  broad  belt  of  the  world, 

All  these  he  saw  ; but  what  he  fain  had  seen 
He  could  not  see,  the  kindly  human  face. 

Nor  5ver  hear  a kindly  voice,  but  heard 
The  myriad  shriek  of  wheeling  ocean-fowl, 
The  league-long  roller  thundering  on  the 
reef. 

The  moving  whisper  of  huge  trees  that 
branch’d 

And  blossom’d  in  the  zenith,  or  the  sweep 
Of  some  precipitous  rivulet  to  the  wave. 

As  down  the  shore  he  ranged,  or  all  day  long 
Sat  often  in  the  seaward  gazing  gorge, 

A shipwreck’d  sailor,  waiting  for  a sail : 

No  sail  from  day  to  day,  but  every  day 
The  sunrise  broken  into  scarlet  shafts 
Among  the  palms  and  ferns  and  precipices  ; 
The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  east ; 

The  blaze  upon  his  island  overhead  ; 

The  blaze  upon  the  waters  to  the  west  ; 

Then  the  great  stars  that  globed  themselves 
in  Heaven, 

The  hollower-bellowing  ocean,  and  again 
The  scarlet  shafts  of  sunrise  — but  no  sail. 

There  often  as  he  watch’d  or  seem’d  to 
watch, 

So  still,  the  golden  lizard  on  him  paused, 

A phantom  made  of  many  phantoms  moved 
Before  him  haunting  him,  or  he  himself 
Moved  haunting  people,  things  and  places, 
known 

Far  in  a darker  isle  beyond  the  line ; 

The  babes,  their  babble,  Annie,  the  small 
house. 

The  climbing  street,  the  mill,  the  leafy  lanes. 
The  peacock-yewtree  and  the  lonely  Hall, 
The  horse  he  drove,  the  boat  he  sold,  the 
chill 

November  dawns  and  dewy-glooming  downs. 
The  gentle  shower,  the  smell  of  dying  leaves. 
And  the  low  moan  of  leaden-color’d  seas. 

Once  likewise,  in  the  ringing  of  his  ears, 
Tho’  faintly,  merrily  — far  and  far  away  — 
He  heard  the  pealing  of  his  parish  bells  ; 
Then,  tho’  he  knew  not  wherefore,  started 
up 

Shuddering,  and  when  the  beauteous  hateful 
isle 

Return’d  upon  him,  had  not  his  poor  heart 
Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem  all 
alone. 

Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude. 


Thus  over  Enoch’s  early-silvering  head 
The  sunny  and  rainy  seasons  came  and  went 
Year  after  year.  His  hopes  to  see  his  own. 
And  pace  the  sacred  old  familiar  fields. 

Not  yet  had  perish’d,  when  his  lonely  doom 
Came  suddenly  to  an  end.  Another  ship 
(She  wanted  water)  blown  by  baffling  winds 
Like  the  Good  Fortune,  from  her  destined 
course. 

Stay’d  by  this  isle,  not  knowing  where  she 
lay  ; 

For  since  the  mate  had  seen  at  early  dawn 
Across  a break  on  the  mist-wreathen  isle 
The  silent  water  slipping  from  the  hills. 
They  sent  a crew  that  landing  burst  away 
In  search  of  stream  or  fount,  and  fill’d  the 
shores 

With  clamor.  Downward  from  his  mountain 
gorge 

Stept  the  long-hair’d  long-bearded  solitary, 
Brown,  looking  hardly  human,  strangely  clad. 
Muttering  and  mumbling,  idiotlike  it  seem’d. 
With  inarticulate  rage,  and  making  signs 
They  knew  not  what : and  yet  he  led  the  way 
To  where  the  rivulets  of  sweet  water  ran  ; 
And  ever  as  he  mingled  with  the  crew. 

And  heard  them  talking,  his  long-bounden 
tongue 

Was  loosen’d,  till  he  made  them  understand  j 
Whom,  when  their  casks  were  fill’d  they  took 
aboard  : 

And  there  the  tale  he  utter’d  brokenly. 
Scarce  credited  at  first  but  more  and  more. 
Amazed  and  melted  all  who  listen’d  to  it : 
And  clothes  they  gave  him  and  free  passage 
home  : 

But  oft  he  work’d  among  the  rest  and  shook 
His  isolation  from  him.  None  of  these 
Came  from  his  county,  or  could  answer  him. 
If  question’d,  aught  of  what  he  cared  to 
know. 

And  dull  the  voyage  was  with  long  delays, 
The  vessel  scarce  sea-worthy  ; but  evermore 
His  fancy  fled  before  the  lazy  wind* 
Returning,  till  beneath  a clouded  moon 
He  like  a lover  down  thro’  all  his  blood 
Drew  in  the  dewy  meadowy  morning-breath 
Of  England,  blown  across  her  ghostly  wall : 
And  that  same  morning  officers  and  men 
Levied  a kindly  tax  upon  themselves. 
Pitying  the  lonely  man,  and  gave  him  it : 
Then  moving  up  the  coast  they  landed  him, 
Ev’n  in  that  harbor  whence  he  sail’d  before. 

There  Enoch  spoke  no  word  to  any  one. 
But  homeward,  — home,  — what  home  ? had 
he  a home  ? 

His  home  he  walk’d.  Bright  was  that  after- 
noon. 

Sunny  but  chill ; till  drawn  thro’  either 
chasm. 

Where  either  haven  open’d  on  the  deeps. 
Roll’d  a sea-haze  and  whelm’d  the  world  in 
gray  : 

Cut  off  the  length  of  highway  on  before. 

And  left  but  narrow  breadth  to  left  and  right 
Of  wither’d  holt  or  tilth  or  pasturage. 

On  the  nigh-naked  tree  the  Robin  piped 


2i8  ENOCH  A EDEN, 


Disconsolate,  and  thro’  the  dripping  haze 
The  dead  weight  of  the  dead  leaf  bore  it 
down  : 

Thicker  the  drizzle  grew,  deeper  the  gloom  ; 
Last,  as  it  seem’d,  a great  mist-blotted  light 
Flared  on  him,  and  he  came  upon  the  place. 

Then  down  the  long  street  having  slowly 
stolen, 

His  heart  foreshadowing  all  calamity. 

His  eyes  upon  the  stones,  he  reach’d  the 
home 

Where  Annie  lived  and  loved  him,  and  his 
babes 

In  those  far-off  seven  happy  years  were  born  ; 
But  finding  neither  light  nor  murmur  there 
(A  bill  of  sale  gleam’d  thro’  the  drizzle)  crept 
Still  downward  thinking  “ dead  or  dead  to 
me  I ” 

Down  to  the  pool  and  narrow  wharf  he 
w'ent, 

Seeking  a tavern  which  of  old  he  knew, 

A front  of  timber-crost  antiquity. 

So  propt,  w'orm-eaten,  ruinously  old. 

He  thought  it  must  have  gone  ; but  he  was 
gone 

Who  kept  it : and  his  widow,  Miriam  Lane, 
With  daily-dwindling  profits  held  the  house  ; 
A haunt  of  brawding  seamen  once,  but  now 
Stiller  with  yet  a bed  for  wandering  men. 
There  Enoch  rested  silent  many  days. 

Blit  Miriam  Lane  w^as  good  and  garrulous. 
Nor  let  him  be,  but  often  breaking  in. 

Told  him,  with  other  annals  of  the  port, 

Not  knowing — Enoch  was  so  brown,  so 
bow’d, 

So  broken  — all  the  story  of  his  house. 

His  baby’s  death,  her  growing  poverty. 

How  Philip  put  her  little  ones  to  school. 
And  kept  them  in  it,  his  long  wooing  her, 
Her  slow  consent,  and  marriage,  and  the 
birth 

Of  Philip’s  child  : and  o’er  his  countenance 
No  shadow  past,  nor  motion  ; any  one. 
Regarding,  well  had  deem’d  he  felt  the  tale 
Less  than  the  teller  : only  when  she  closed, 

“ Enoch,  poor  man,  was  cast  away  and  lost,” 
He  shaking  his  gray  head  pathetically, 
Repeated  muttering  “ Cast  away  and  lost  ” ; 
Again  in  deeper  inward  whispers  “ Lost ! ” 

But  Enoch  yearn’d  to  see  her  face  again  ; 

“ If  I might  look  on  her  sweet  face  again 
And  know  that  she  is  happy.”  So  the 
thought 

Haunted  and  harass’d  him,  and  drove  him 
forth 

At  evening  when  the  dull  November  day 
Was  growing  duller  twilight,  to  the  hill. 
There  he  sat  down  gazing  on  all  below  : 
There  did  a thousand  memories  roll  upon 
him. 

Unspeakable  for  sadness.  By  and  by 
The  ruddy  square  of  comfortable  light, 
Far-blazing  from  the  rear  of  Philip’s  house. 
Allured  him,  as  the  beacon-blaze  allures 


The  bird  of  passage,  till  he  madly  strikes 
Against  it,  and  beats  out  his  weary  life. 

For  Philip’s  dw'elling  fronted  on  the  street, 
The  latest  house  to  landward  ; but  behind, 
With  one  small  gate  that  open’d  on  thew-aste. 
Flourish’d  a little  garden  square  and  wall’d  ; 
And  in  it  throve  an  ancient  evergreen, 

A yewtree,  and  all  round  it  ran  a walk 
Of  shingle,  and  a walk  divided  it : 

But  Enoch  shunn’d  the  middle  walk  and 
stole 

Up  by  the  wall,  behind  the  yew  ; and  thence 
That  which  he  better  might  have  shunn’d,  if 
griefs 

Like  his  have  worse  or  better,  Enoch  saw. 

For  cups  and  silver  on  the  burnish’d  board 
Sparkled  and  shone  T so  genial  was  the 
hearth  ; 

And  on  the  right  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
Philip,  the  slighted  suitor  of  old  times. 

Stout,  rosy,  with  his  babe  across  his  knees ; 
And  o’er  her  second  father  stoopt  a girl, 

A later  but  a loftier  Annie  Lee, 

Fair-hair’d  and  tall,  and  from  her  lifted  hand 
Dangled  a length  of  ribbon  and  a ring 
To  tempt  the  babe,  who  rear’d  his  creasy 
arms, 

Caught  at  and  ever  miss’dit,  and  they  laugh’d: 
And  on  the  left  hand  of  the  hearth  he  saw 
The  mother  glancing  often  toward  her  babe, 
But  turning  now  and  then  to  speak  with  him. 
Her  son,  who  stood  before  her  tall  and  strong, 
And  saying  that  which  pleased  him,  for  he 
smiled. 

Now  when  the  dead  man  come  to  life  be- 
held 

His  wife  his  wife  no  more,  and  saw  the  babe 
Hers,  yet  not  his,  upon  the  father’s  knee, 
And  all  the  warmth,  the  peace,  the  happi- 
ness. 

And  his  own  children  tall  and  beautiful. 

And  him,  that  other,  reigning  in  his  place. 
Lord  of  his  rights  and  of  his  children’s  love,  — 
Then  he,  tho’  Miriam  I.ane  had  told  him  all. 
Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things 
heard. 

Stagger’d  and  shook,  holding  the  branch, 
and  fear’d 

To  send  abroad  a shrill  and  terrible  cry. 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom. 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

He  therefore  turning  softly  like  a thief. 
Lest  the  harsh  shingle  should  grate  underfoot, 
And  feeling  all  along  the  garden-w’all. 

Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be 
found, 

Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open’d  it,  and  closed. 
As  lightly  as  a sick  man’s  chamber-door. 
Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste. 

And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that 
his  knees 

Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray’d. 


ENOCH 

“ Too  hard  to  bear  ! why  did  they  take  me 
thence  ? 

0 God  Almighty,  blessed  Saviour,  Thou 
That  didst  uphold  me  on  my  lonely  isle, 
Uphold  me,  Father,  in  my  loneliness 

A little  longer  ! aid  me,  give  me  strength 
Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know. 

Help  me  not  to  break  in  upon  her  peace. 

My  children  too  ! must  I not  speak  to  these? 
They  know  me  not.  I should  betray  myself. 
Never : no  father’s  kiss  for  me,  — the  girl 
So  like  her  mother,  and  the  boy,  my  son.” 

There  speech  and  thought  and  nature  fail’d 
a iittle, 

And  he  lay  tranced : but  when  he  rose  and 
paced 

“Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 

All  down  the  narrow  street  he  went 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain. 

As  tho’  it  were  the  burthen  of  a song, 

“ Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know.” 

He  was  not  all  unhappy.  His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith,  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a living  source  within  the  will, 
And  beating  up  thro’  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea. 
Kept  him  a living  soul.  ‘‘  This  miller’s  wife,” 
He  said  to  Miriam,  ” that  you  told  me  of. 
Has  she  no  fear  that  her  first  husband  lives  ? ” 
‘‘Ay,  ay,  poor  soul,”  said  Miriam,  “fear 
enow  ! 

If  you  could  tell  her  you  had  seen  him  dead. 
Why,  that  would  be  her  comfort  ” : and  he 
thought, 

‘‘  After  the  Lord  has  call’d  me  she  shall  know, 

1 wait  His  time,”  and  Enoch  set  himself. 
Scorning  an  alms,  to  work  whereby  to  live. 
Almost  to  all  things  could  he  turn  his  hand. 
Cooper  he  was  and  carpenter,  and  wrought 
To  make  the  boatmen  fishing-nets,  or  help’d 
At  lading  and  unlading  the  tall  barks, 

That  brought  the  stinted  commerce  of  those 

days : 

Thus  earn’d  a scanty  living  for  himself : 

Yet  since  he  did  but  labor  for  himself. 

Work  without  hope,  there  was  not  life  in  it 
Whereby  the  man  could  live  ; and  as  the  year 
Roll’d  itself  round  again  to  meet  the  day 
When  Enoch  had  return’d,  a languor  came 
Upon  him,  gentle  sickness,  gradually 
Weakening  the  man,  till  he  could  do  no  more. 
But  kept  the  house,  his  chair,  and  last  his 
bed. 

And  EiToch  bore  his  weakness  cheerfully. 

For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  thro’  the  gray  skirts  of  a lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despair’d  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all. 

For  thro’  that  dawning  gleam’d  a kindlier 
hope 

On  Enoch  thinking,  ‘‘  After  I am  gone. 

Then  may  she  learn  T loved  her  to  the  last.” 
He  call’d  aloud  for  Miriam  Lane  and  said, 


ARDEN.  2ig 

‘‘  Woman,  T have  a secret  — only  swear. 
Before  1 tell  you  — swear  upon  the  book 
Not  to  reveal  it,  till  you  see  me  dead.” 
‘‘Dead,”  clamor’d  the  good  woman,  ‘‘hear 
him  talk  ! 

I warrant,  man,  that  we  shall  bring  you 
round.” 

“Swear,”  added  Enoch  sternly,  “on  the 
book.” 

And  on  the  book,  half-frighted,  Miriam  swore. 
Then  Enoch  rolling  his  gray  eyes  upon  her, 
“ Did  you  know  Enoch  Arden  of  this  town  ? ” 
“Know  him? ’’she  said,  “I  knew  him  far 
away. 

Ay,  ay,  I mind  him  coming  down  the  street  ; 
Held  his  head  high,  and  cared  for  no  man, 
he.” 

Slowly  and  sadly  Enoch  answer’d  her  ; 

“ His  head  is  low,  and  no  man  cares  for  him. 
I think  I have  not  three  days  more  to  live  : 

I am  the  man.”  At  which  the  w'oman  gave 
A half-incredulous,  half-hysterical  cry. 

“ You  Arden,  you  ! nay,  — sure  he  was  a foot 
Higher  than  you  be.”  Enoch  said  again, 
“My  God  has  bow’d  me  down  to  what  J am  ; 
My  grief  and  solitude  have  broken  me  ; 
Nevertheless,  know  you  that  I am  he 
Who  married  — but  that  name  has  twice  been 
changed  — 

I married  her  who  married  Philip  Ray.  ’ 

Sit,  listen.”  Then  he  told  her  of  his  voyage, 
His  wreck,  his  lonely  life,  his  coming  back. 
His  gazing  in  on  Annie,  his  resolve. 

And  how  he  kept  it.  As  the  woman  heard, 
Fast  flow’d  the  current  of  her  easy  tears. 
While  in  her  heart  she  yearn’d  incessantly 
To  rush  abroad  all  round  the  little  haven. 
Proclaiming  Enoch  Arden  and  his  woes  ; 

But  awed  and  promise-bounden  she  forbore. 
Saying  only,  “ See  your  bairns  before  you  go ! 
Eh,  let  me  fetch ’m,  Arden,”  and  arose 
Eager  to  bring  them  down,  for  Enoch  hung 
A moment  on  her  words,  but  then  replied  ; 

“ Woman,  disturb  me  not  now  at  the  last. 
But  let  me  hold  my  purpose  till  I die. 

Sit  down  again  ; mark  me  and  understand. 
While  I have  power  to  speak.  I charge  you 
now. 

When  you  shall  see  her,  tell  her  that  I died 
Blessing  her,  praying  for  her,  loving  her  ; 
Save  for  the  bar  between  us.  loving  her 
As  when  she  laid  her  head  beside  my  own. 
And  tell  my  daughter  Annie,  whom  I saw 
So  like  her  mother,  that  my  latest  breath 
Was  spent  in  blessing  her  and  praying  for 
her. 

And  tell  my  son  that  I died  blessing  him. 
And  say  to  Philip  that  I blest  him  too  ; 

He  never  meant  us  anything  but  good. 

But  if  my  children  care  to  see  me  dead. 

Who  hardly  knew  me  living,  let  them  come, 

I am  their  father ; but  she  must  not  cotne. 
For  my  dead  face  would  vex  her  after-life. 
And  now  there  is  but  one  of  all  my  blood. 
Who  will  embrace  me  in  the  world-to-be  : 
This  hair  is  his  : she  cut  it  off  and  gave  it. 
And  I have  borne  it  with  me  all  these  years. 


220 


AYLMER^S  FIELD. 


And  thought  to  bear  it  with  me  to  my  grave  ; 
But  now  my  mind  is  changed,  for  I shall  see 
him. 

My  babe  in  bliss  : wherefore  when  I am  gone, 
Take,  give  her  this,  for  it  may  comfort  her  ; 
It  will  moreover  be  a token  to  her, 

That  1 airf  he.” 

He  ceased  ; and  Miriam  Lane 
Made  such  a voluble  answer  promising  all, 
I'hat  once  again  be  roll’d  his  eyes  upon  her 
Repeating  all  he  wish’d,  and  once  again 
She  promised. 


Then  the  third  night  after  this. 
While  Enoch  slumber’d  motionless  and  pale, 
And  Miriam  watch’d  and  dozed  at  intervals, 
There  came  so  loud  a calling  of  the  sea. 

That  all  the  houses  in  the  haven  rang. 

He  woke,  he  rose,  he  spread  his  arms  abroad 
Crying  with  a loud  voice  “ A sail  ! a sail ! 

I am  saved  ” ; and  so  fell  back  and  spoke  no 
more. 

So  past  the  strong  heroic  soul  away. 
And  when  they  buried  him  the  little  port 
Had  seldom  seen  a costlier  funeral 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


AYLMER’S  FIELD. 

1793- 

Dust  are  our  frames ; and,  gilded  dust, 
our  pride 

Looks  only  for  a moment  whole  and  sound ; 
Like  that  long-buried  body  of  the  king, 
Found  lying  with  his  urns  and  ornaments, 
Which  at  a touch  of  light,  an  air  of  heaven, 
Slipt  into  ashes  and  was  found  no  more. 

Here  is  a story  which  in  rougher  shape 
Came  from  a grizzled  cripple,  whom  I saw 
Sunning  himself  in  a waste  field  alone  — 

Old,  and  a mine  of  memories  — who  had 
served, 

Long  since,  a bygone  Rector  of  the  place, 
And  been  himself  a part  of  what  he  told. 

Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer,  that  almighty  man, 
The  county  God  — in  whose  capacious  hall. 
Hung  with  a hundred  shields,  the  family  tree 
Sprang  from  the  midriff of  a prostrate  king  — 
Whose  blazing  wyvern  weathercock’d  the 
spire. 

Stood  from  his  walls  and  wing’d  his  entry- 
gates 

And  swang  besides  on  many  a windy  sign  — 
Whose  eyes  from  under  a pyramidal  head 
Saw  from  his  windows  nothing  save  his  own  — 
What  lovelier  of  his  own  had  he  than  her. 
His  only  child,  his  Edith,  whom  he  loved 
As  heiress  and  not  heir  regretfully? 

But  “ he  that  marries  her  marries  her  name  ” 
This  fiat  somewhat  soothed  himself  and  wife. 
His  wife  a faded  beauty  of  the  Baths, 

Insipid  as  the  Queen  upon  a card  ; 

Her  all  of  thought  and  bearing  hardly  more 
Than  his  own  shadow  in  a sickly  sun. 

A land  of  hops  and  poppy-mingled  corn, 
Little  about  it  stirring  save  a brook  ! 

A sleepy  land  where  under  the  same  wheel 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by  year  ;■ 


Where  almost  all  the  village  had  one  name ; 
Where  Aylmer  follow’d  Aylmer  at  the  Hall 
And  Averill  Averill  at  the  Rectory 
Thrice  over ; so  that  Rectory  and  Hall, 
Bound  in  an  immemorial  intimacy. 

Were  open  to  each  other  ; tho’  to  dream 
That  Love  could  bind  them  closer  well  had 
made 

The  hoar  hair  of  the  Baronet  bristle  up 
With  horror,  worse  than  had  he  heard  his 
priest  ^ , 

Preach  an  inverted  scripture,  sons  of  men 
Daughters  of  God ; so  sleepy  was  the  land. 

And  might  not  Averill,  had  he  will’d  it  so, 
Somewhere  beneath  his  own  low  range  of 
roofs,  , 

Have  also  set  his  many-shielded  tree  ? 

There  was  an  Aylmer- Averill  marriage  once. 
When  the  red  rose  was  redder  than  itself. 
And  York’s  white  rose  as  red  as  Lancaster’s, 
With  wounded  peace  which  each  had  prick’d 
to  death. 

“ Not  proven,”  Averill  said,  or  laughingly, 

‘‘  Some  other  race  of  Averills” — prov’n  or  no, 
What  cared  he  ? what,  if  other  or  the  same  ? 
He  lean’d  not  on  his  fathers  but  himself 
But  Leolin,  his  brother,  living  oft 
With  Averill,  and  a year  or  two  before 
Call’d  to  the  bar,  but  ever  call’d  away 
By  one  low  voice  to  one  dear  neighborhood, 
Would  often,  in  his  walks  with  Edith,  claim 
A distant  kinship  to  the  gracious  blood 
That  shook  the  heart  of  Edith  hearing  him. 

Sanguine  he  was  : a but  less  vivid  hue 
Than  of  that  islet  in  thef  chestnut-bloom 
Flamed  in  his  cheek  ; and  eager  eyes,  that 
still 

Took  joyful  note  of  all  things  joyful,  beam’d, 
Beneath  a manelike  mass  of  rolling  gold. 
Their  best  and  brightest,  when  they  dwelt  on 
hers, 

Edith,  whose  pensive  beauty,  perfect  else. 
But  subject  to  the  season  or  the  mood, 


Aylmer  Hall, 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


321 


Shone  like  a mystic  star  between  the  less 
And  greater  glory  varying  to  and  fro, 

We  know  not  wherefore  ; bounteously  made, 
And  yet  so  finely,  that  a troublous  touch 
Thinn’d,  or  would  seem  to  thin  her  in  a day, 
A joyous  to  dilate,  as  toward  the  light. 

And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first. 
Leolin’s  first  nurse  was,  five  years  after,  hers: 
So  much  the  boy  foreran  ; but  when  his  date 
Doubled  her  own,  for  want  of  playmates,  he 
(Since  Averill  was  a decade  and  a half 
His  elder,  and  their  parents  underground) 
Had  tost  his  ball  and  flown  his  kite,  and 
roll’d 

His  hoop  to  pleasure  Edith,  with  her  dipt 
Against  the  rush  of  the  air  in  the  prone 
swing. 

Made  blossom-ball  or  daisy  chain,  arranged 
Her  garden,  sow’d  her  name  and  kept  it 
green 

In  living  letters,  told  her  fairy-tales, 

Show’d  her  the  fairy  footings  on  the  grass, 
The  little  dells  of  cowslip,  fairy  palms, 

The  petty  marestail  forest,  fairy  pines. 

Or  from  the  tiny  pitted  target  blew 
What  look’d  a flight  of  fairy  arrows  aim’d 
All  at  one  mark,  all  hitting  : make-believes 
For  Edith  and  himself ; or  else  he  forged. 
But  that  was  later,  boyish  histories 
Of  battle,  bold  adventure,  dungeon,  wreck. 
Flights,  terrors,  sudden  rescues,  and  true  love 
Crown’d  after  trial ; sketches  rude  and  faint. 
But  where  a passion  yet  unborn  perhaps 
Lay  hidden  as  the  music  of  the  moon 
Sleeps  in  the  plain  eggs  of  the  nightingale. 
And  thus  together,  save  forcollege-times 
Or  Temple-eaten  terms,  a couple,  fair 
As  ever  painter  painted,  poet  sang. 

Or  Heav’n  in  lavish  bounty  moulded,  grew. 
And  more  and  more,  the  maiden  woman- 
grown. 

He  wasted  hours  with  Averill  ; there,  when 
first 

The  tented  winter-field  was  broken  up 
Into  that  phalanx  of  the  summer  spears 
That  soon  should  wear  the  garland ; there 
again 

When  burr  and  bine  were  gather’d : lastly 
there 

At  Christmas  ; ever  welcome  at  the  Hall, 

On  whose  dull  sameness  his  full  tide  of 
youth 

Broke  with  a phosphorescence  cheering  even 
My  lady  ; and  the  Baronet  yet  had  laid 
No  bar  between  them  : dull  and  self-in- 
volved. 

Tall  and  erect,  but  bending  from  his  height 
With  half-allowing  smiles  for  all  the  world. 
And  mighty  courteous  in  the  main  — his 
pride 

Lay  deeper  than  to  wear  it  as  his  ring  — 

He,  like  an  Aylmer  in  his  Aylmerism, 

Would  care  no  more  for  Leolin’s  walking 
wi.h  her 

Than  for  his  old  Newfoundland’s,  when  they 
ran 

To  loose  him  at  the  stables,  for  he  rose 
Twofooted  at  the  limit  of  his  chain. 


Roaring  to  make  a third  ; and  how  should 
Love, 

Whom  the  cross-lightnings  of  four  chance- 
met  eyes 

Flash  into  fiery  life  from  nothing,  follow 
Such  dear  familiarities  of  dawn  ? 

Seldom,  but  when  he  does.  Master  of  all. 

So  these  young  hearts  not  knowing  that 
they  loved. 

Not  she  at  least,  nor  conscious  of  a bar 
Between  them,  nor  by  plight  or  broken  ring 
Bound,  but  an  immemorial  intimacy. 
Wander’d  at  will,  but  oft  accompanied 
By  Averill ; his,  a brother’s  love,  that  hung 
With  wings  of  brooding  shelter  o’er  her 
peace. 

Might  have  been  other,  save  for  Leolin’s  — 
Who  knows  ? but  so  they  wander’d,  hour  by 
hour 

Gather’d  the  blossom  that  rebloom’d,  and 
drank 

The  magic  cup  that  fill’d  itself  anew. 

A whisper  half  reveal’d  her  to  herself. 

For  out  beyond  her  lodges,  where  the  brook 
Vocal,  with  here  and  there  a silence,  ran 
By  sallowy  rims,  arose  the  laborers’  homes, 
A frequent  haunt  of  Edith,  on  low  knobs 
That  dimpling  died  into  each  other,  huts 
At  random  scatter’d,  each  a nest  in  bl*oom. 
Her  art,  her  hand,  her  counsel  all  had  wrought 
About  tliem  : here  was  one  that,  summer- 
blanch’d. 

Was  parcel-bearded  with  the  traveller’s-joy 
In  Autumn,  parcel  ivy-clad  ; and  here 
The  warm  blue  breathings  of  a hidden  hearth 
Broke  from  a bower  of  vine  and  honeysuckle : 
One  look’d  all  rosetree,  and  another  wore 
A close-set  robe  of  jasmine  sown  with  stars  : 
This  had  a rosy  sea  of  gillyflowers 
About  it : this  a milky  way  on  earth. 

Like  visions  in  the  Northern  dreamer’s 
heavens, 

A lily-avenue  climbing  to  the  doors  ; 

One,  almost  to  the  martin-haunted  eaves 
A summer  burial  deep  in  hollyhocks  ; 

Each,  its  own  charm ; and  Edith’s  every- 
where ; 

And  Edith  ever  visitant  with  him. 

He  but  less  loved  than  Edith,  of  her  poor : 
P'or  she  — so  lowly-lovely  and  so  loving. 
Queenly  responsive  when  the  loyal  hand 
Rose  from  the  clay  it  work’d  in  as  she  past. 
Not  sowing  hedgerow  texts  and  passing  by. 
Nor  dealing  goodly  counsel  from  a height 
That  makes  the  lowest  hate  it,  but  a voice 
Of  comfort  and  an  open  hand  of  help, 

A splendid  presence  flattering  the  poor  roofs 
Revered  as  theirs,  but  kindlier  than  them- 
selves 

To  ailing  wife  or  wailing  infancy 
Or  old  bedridden  palsy,  — was  adored  ; 

He,  loved  for  her  and  for  himself.  A grasp 
Having  the  warmth  and  muscle  of  the  heart, 
A childly  way  with  children,  and  a laugh 
Ringing  like  proven  golden  coinage  true. 
Were  no  false  passport  to  that  easy  realm, 


222  A YLMEWS  FIELD. 


Where  once  with  Leolin  at  her  side  the  girl, 
Nursing  a child,  and  turning  to  the  warmth 
The  tender  pink  five-beaded  baby-soles, 
Heard  the  good  mother  softly  w'hisper  “Bless, 
God  bless  ’em  5 marriages  are  made  in 
Heaven.” 

A flash  of  semi-jealousy  clear’d  it  to  her. 
My  Lady’s  Indian  kinsman  unannounced 
With  half  a score  of  swarthy  faces  came. 

His  own,  tho’  keen  and  bold  and  soldierly, 
Sear’d  by  the  close  ecliptic,  was  not  fair  ; 
Fairer  his  talk,  a tongue  that  ruled  the  hour, 
Tho’  seeming  boastful : so  W'hen  first  he 
dash’d 

Into  the  chronicle  of  a deedful  day. 

Sir  Aylmer  half  forgot  his  lazy  smile 
Of  patron  “ Good  ! my  lady’s  kinsman  ! 
good  ! ” 

My  lady  with  her  fingers  interlock’d, 

And  rotatory  thumbs  on  silken  knees, 

Call’d  all  her  vital  spirits  into  each  ear 
To  listen  : unawares  they  flitted  off, 

Busying  themselves  about  the  flowerage 
'I'hat  stood  from  out  a stiff  brocade  in  which. 
The  meteor  of  a splendid  season,  she. 

Once  with  this  kinsman,  ah  so  long  ago, 
Stept  thro’  the  stately  minuet  of  those  days  : 
But  Edith’s  eager  fancy  hurried  with  him 
Snatch’d  thro’  the  perilous  passes  of  his  life  : 
Till  Leolin  ever  watchful  of  her  eye 
Hated  him  with  a momentary  hate. 
Wife-hunting,  as  the  rumor  ran,  was  he  : 

I know  not,  for  he  spoke  not,  only  shower’d 
His  oriental  gifts  on  every  one 
And  most  on  Edith  : like  a storrn  he  came, 
And  shook  the  house,  and  like  a storm  he 
went. 

Among  the  gifts  he  left  her  (possibly 
He  flow’d  and  ebb’d  uncertain,  to  return 
When  others  had  been  tested)  there  was  one, 
A dagger,  in  rich  sheath  with  jewels  on  it 
Sprinkled  about  in  gold  that  branch’d  itself 
Fine  as  ice-ferns  on  January  panes 
Made  by  a breath.  I know  not  whence  at 
first. 

Nor  of  what  race,  the  w’ork  ; but  as  he  told 
The  story,  storming  a hill-fort  of  thieves 
He  got  it  ; for  their  captain  after  fight. 

His  comrades  having  fought  their  last  below. 
Was  climbing  up  the  valley;  at  whom  he 
shot : 

Down  from  the  beetling  crag  to  which  he 
clung 

Tumbled  the  tawny  rascal  at  his  feet. 

This  dagger  with  him,  which  when  now  ad- 
mired 

By  Edith  whom  his  pleasure  was  to  please. 
At  once  the  costly  Sahib  yielded  to  her. 

And  Leolin,  coming  after  he  was  gone. 
Tost  over  all  her  presents  petulantly  : 

And  when  she  show’d  the  wealthy  scabbard, 
saying 

“ Look  what  a lovely  piece  of  workman- 
ship ! ” 

Slight  was  his  answer  “ Well  — I care  not 
for  it  ” : 


Then  playing  with  the  blade  he  prick’d  hit 
hand, 

“ A gracious  gift  to  give  a lady,  this  ! ” 

“ But  would  it  be  more  gracious,”  ask’d  the 
girl, 

“ Were  I to  give  this  gift  of  his  to  one 
That  is  no  lady  ? ” “ Gracious  ? No,”  said 

he. 

“Me? — but  I cared  not  for  it.  O pardon 
me, 

I seem  to  be  ungraciousness  itself.” 

“ Take  it,”  she  added  sweetly,  “ tho’  his  gift ; 
For  I am  more  ungracious  ev’n  than  you, 

1 care  not  for  it  either”  ; and  he  said 
“ Why  then  I love  it  ” : but  Sir  Aylmer  past. 
And  neither  loved  nor  liked  the  thing  he 
heard. 

The  next  day  came  a neighbor.  Blues  and 
reds 

They  talk’d  of:  blues  were  sure  of  it,  he 
thought : 

Then  of  the  latest  fox  — where  started  — 
kill’d 

In  such  a bottom  : “ Peter  had  the  brush. 
My  Peter,  first”  : and  did  Sir  Aylmer  know 
That  great  pock-pitten  fellow  had  been 
caught  ? 

Then  made  his  pleasure  echo,  hand  to  hand. 
And  rolling  as  it  were  the  substance  of  it 
Between  his  palms  a moment  up  and  down  — 
“ The  birds  were  warm,  the  birds  were  warm 
upon  him  ; 

We  have  him  now  ” ; and  had  Sir  Aylmer 
heard  — 

Nay,  but  he  must  — the  land  was  ringing  of 
it  — 

This  blacksmith-border  marriage  — one  they 
knew  — 

Raw  from  the  nursery  — who  could  trust  a 
child? 

That  cursed  France  wfith  her  egalitles  ! 

And  did  Sir  Aylmer  (deferentially 
With  nearing  chair  and  lower’d  accent) 
think  — 

For  people  talk’d  — that  it  was  w'holly  wise 
To  let  that  handsome  fellow  Averill  walk 
So  freely  with  his  daughter?  people  talk’d  — 
The  boy  might  get  a notion  into  him  ; 

The  girl  might  be  entangled  ere  she  knew. 
Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  slowly  stiffening  spoke  : 

“ The  girl  and  boy.  Sir,  know  their  differ- 
ences ! ” 

“ Good,”  said  his  friend,  “but  watch  ! ” and 
he  “ Enough, 

More  than  enough.  Sir!  I can  guard  my 
own.” 

They  parted,  and  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer  watch’d. 

Pale,  for  on  her  the  thunders  of  the  house 
Had  fallen  first,  was  Edith  that  same  night: 
Pale  as  the  Jephtha’s  daughter,  a rough  piece 
Of  early  rigid  color,  under  w'hich 
Withdrawing  by  the  counter  door  to  that 
Which  Leolin  open’d,  she  cast  back  upon  him 
A piteous  glance,  and  vanish’d.  He,  as  one 
Caught  in  a burst  of  unexpected  storm, 

And  pelted  with  outrageous  epithets. 


AYLMER'S  FIELD, 


223 


Turning  beheld  the  Powers  of  the  House 
On  either  side  the  hearth,  indignant ; her, 
Cooling  her  false  cheek  with  a feather-fan, 
Him  glaring,  by  his  own  stale  devil  spurr’d, 
And,  like  a beast  hard-ridden,  breathing  hard. 
“Ungenerous,  dishonorable,  base. 
Presumptuous  1 trusted  as  he  was  with  her. 
The  sole  succeeder  to  their  wealth,  their 
lands. 

The  last  remaining  pillar  of  their  house, 

The  one  transmitter  of  their  ancient  name. 
Their  child.”  “Our  child!”  “Our  heir- 
ess ! ” “ Ours  ! ” for  still, 

Like  echoes  from  beyond  a hollow,  came 
Her  sicklier  iteration.  Last  he  said 
“ Boy,  mark  me  ! for  your  fortunes  are  to 
make. 

I swear  you  shall  not  make  them  out  of  mine. 
Now  inasmuch  as  you  have  practised  on  her, 
Perplext  her,  made  her  half  forget  herself. 
Swerve  from  her  duty  to  herself  and  us  — 
Things  in  an  Aylmer  deem’d  impossible. 

Far  as  we  track  ourselves  — I say  that  this,  — 
Else  I withdraw  favor  and  countenance 
From  you  and  yours  forever  — shall  you  do. 
Sir,  when  you  see  her  — but  you  shall  not 
see  her  — 

No,  you  shall  write,  and  not  to  her,  but  me : 
And  you  shall  say  that  having  spoken  with 
me. 

And  after  look’d  into  yourself,  you  find 
That  you  meant  nothing  — as  indeed  you 
know 

That  you  meant  nothing.  Such  a match  as 
this  I 

Impossible,  prodigious  I”  These  were  words. 
As  meted  by  his  measure  of  himself, 

Arguing  boundless  forbearance  : after  which. 
And  Leolin’s  horror-stricken  answer,  “ 1 
So  foul  a traitor  to  myself  and  her. 

Never,  O never,”  for  about  as  long 
As  the  wind-hover  hangs  in  balance,  paused 
Sir  Aylmer  reddening  from  the  storm  within, 
Then  broke  all  bonds  of  courtesy,  and  crying 
“ Boy,  should  I find  you  by  my  doors  again 
My  men  shall  lash  you  from  them  like  a dog  ; 
Hence  1 ” with  a sudden  execration  drove 
The  footstool  from  before  him,  and  arose ; 

So,  stammering  “scoundrel”  out  of  teeth 
that  ground 

As  in  a dreadful  dream,  while  Leolin  still 
Retreated  half-aghast,  the  fierce  old  man 
Follow’d,  and  under  his  own  lintel  stood 
Storming  with  lifted  hands,  a hoary  face 
Meet  for  the  reverence  of  the  hearth,  but 
now. 

Beneath  a pale  and  unimpassion’d  moon, 
Vext  with  unworthy  madness,  and  deform’d. 

Slowly  and  conscious  of  the  rageful  eye 
That  watch’d  him,  till  he  heard  the  ponder- 
ous door 

Close,  crashing  with  long  echoes  thro’  the 
land, 

Went  Leolin  ; then,  his  passions  all  in  flood 
And  masters  of  his  motion,  furiously 
Down  thro’  the  bright  lawns  to  his  brother’s 
ran, 


And  foam’d  away  his  heart  at  Averill’s  ear  : 
Whom  Averill  solaced  as  he  might,  amazed  : 
The  man  was  his,  had  been  his  father’s, 
friend  : 

He  must  have  seen,  himself  had  seen  it  long  ; 
He  must  have  known,  himself  had  known  ; 
besides, 

He  never  yet  had  set  his  daughter  forth 
Here  in  the  woman-markets  of  the  west. 
Where  our  Caucasians  let  themselves  be  sold. 
Some  one,  he  thought,  had  slander’d  Leolin 
to  him. 

“ Brother,  for  I have  loved  you  more  as  son 
Than  brother,  let  me  tell  you  ; I myself — 
What  is  their  pretty  saying?  jilted,  is  it? 
Jilted  I was  : I say  it  for  your  peace. 

Pain’d,  and,  as  bearing  in  myself  the  shame 
The  woman  should  have  borne,  humiliated, 

I lived  for  years  a stunted  sunless  life ; 

Till  after  our  good  parents  past  away 
Watching  your  growth,  I seem’d  again  to 
grow. 

Leolin,  I almost  sin  in  envying  you  : 

The  very  whitest  lamb  in  all  my  fold 
Loves  you  : I know  her  : the  worst  thought 
she  has 

Is  whiter  even  than  her  pretty  hand  : 

She  must  prove  true  : for,  brother,  where  two 
fight 

The  strongest  wins,  and  truth  and  love  are 
strength, 

And  you  are  happy  : let  her  parents  be.” 

But  Leolin  cried  out  the  more  upon  them — 
Insolent,  brainless,  heartless!  heiress,  wealth. 
Their  wealth,  their  heiress ! wealth  enough 
was  theirs 

For  twenty  matches.  Were  he  lord  of  thi.s. 
Why  twenty  boys  and  girls  should  marry  on 
it* 

And  forty  blest  ones  bless  him,  and  himself 
Be  wealthy  still,  ay  wealthier.  He  believed 
This  filthy  marriage-hindering  Mammon 
made 

The  harlot  of  the  cities  ; nature  crost 
Was  mother  of  the  foul  adulteries 
That  saturate  soul  with  body.  Name,  tool 
name. 

Their  ancient  name  ! they  might  be  proud  ; 
its  worth 

Was  being  Edith’s.  Ah  how  pale  she  had 
look’d 

Darling,  to-night ! they  must  have  rated  her 
Beyond  all  tolerance.  These  old  pheasant- 
lords. 

These  partridge-breeders  of  a thousand  years. 
Who  had  mildew’d  in  their  thousands,  doing 
nothing 

Since  Egbert  — why,  the  greater  their  dis- 
grace ! 

Fall  back  upon  a name  ! rest,  rot  in  that ! 
Not  keep  it  noble,  make  it  nobler?  fools. 
With  such  a vantage-ground  for  nobleness  ! 
He  had  known  a man,  a quintessence  of  man. 
The  life  of  all  — who  madly  loved  — and  he. 
Thwarted  by  one  of  these  old  father-fools. 
Had  rioted  his  life  out,  and  made  an  end. 

He  would  not  do  it ! her  sweet  face  and  faith 


AYLMER^ S FIELD. 


224 

Held  him  from  that:  but  he  had  powers,  he 
knew  it  : 

Back  would  he  to  his  studies,  make  a name, 
Name,  fortune  too:  the  world  should  ring  of 
him 

To  shame  these  mouldy  Aylmers  in  their 
graves  : 

Chancellor,  or  what  is  greatest  would  he 
be  — 

“O  brother,  I am  grieved  to  learn  your 
grief— 

Give  me  my  fling,  and  let  me  say  my  say.” 

At  which,  like  one  that  sees  his  own  excess. 
And  easily  forgives  it  as  his  own. 

He  laugh’d ; and  then  was  mute ; but  pres- 
ently 

Wept  like  a storm  : and  honest  Averill  seeing 
How  low  his  brother’s  mood  had  fallen, 
fetch’d 

His  richest  beeswing  from  a binn  reserved 
For  banquets,  praised  the  waning  red,  and 
told 

The  vintage  — when  this  Aylmer  came  of 
age  — 

Then  drank  and  past  it : till  at  length  the 
two, 

Tho’  Leolin  flamed  and  fell  again,  agreed 
That  much  allowance  must  be  made  for  men. 
After  an  angry  dream  this  kindlier  glow 
Faded  with  morning,  but  his  purpose  held. 

Yet  once  by  night  again  the  lovers  met, 

A perilous  meeting  under  the  tall  pines 
That  darken’d  all  the  northward  of  her  Hall. 
Him,  to  her  meek  and  modest  bosom  prest 
In  agony,  she  promised  that  no  force, 
Persuasion,  no,  nor  death  could  alter  her: 
He,  passionately  hopefuller,  would  go. 

Labor  for  his  own  Edith,  and  return 
In  such  a sunlight  of  prosperity 
He  should  not  be  rejected.  ” Write  to  me  ! 
They  loved  me,  and  because  I loved  their 
child 

They  hate  me  : there  is  war  between  us, 
dear, 

Which  breaks  all  bonds  but  ours  ; we  must 
remain 

Sacred  to  one  another.”  So  they  talk’d. 
Poor  children,  for  their  comfort : the  wind 
blew ; 

The  rain  of  heaven,  and  their  own  bitter 
tears, 

Tears,  and  the  careless  rain  of  heaven,  mixt 
Upon  their  faces,  as  they  kiss’d  each  other 
In  darkness,  and  above  them  roar’d  the  pine. 

So  Leolin  went ; and  as  we  task  ourselves 
To  learn  a language  known  but  smatteringly 
In  phrases  here  and  there  at  random,  toil’d 
Mastering  the  lawless  science  of  our  law, 
That  codeless  myriad  of  precedent. 

That  wilderness  of  single  instances, 

Thro’  which  a few,  by  wit  or  fortune  led. 
May  beat  a pathway  out  to  wealth  and  fame. 
The  jests,  that  flash’d  about  the  pleader’s 
room, 

Lightning  of  the  hour,  the  pun,  the  scurril- 
ous tale,  — 


Old  scandals  buried  now  seven  decades  deep 
In  other  scandals  that  have  lived  and  died, 
And  left  the  living  scandal  that  shall  die  — 
Were  dead  to  him  already  ; bent  as  he  was 
To  make  disproof  of  scorn,  and  strong  in 
hopes. 

And  prodigal  of  all  brain-labor  he, 

Charier  of  sleep,  and  wine  and  exercise, 
Except  when  for  a breathing-while  at  eve 
Some  niggard  fraction  of  an  hour  he  ran 
Beside  the  river-bank  : and  then  indeed 
Harder  the  times  were,  and  the  hands  of 
power 

Were  bloodier,  and  the  according  hearts  of 
men 

Seem’d  harder  too  ; but  the  soft  river-breeze. 
Which  fann’d  the  gardens  of  that  rival  rose 
Yet  fragrant  in  a heart  remembering 
His  former  talks  with  Edith,  on  him  breathed 
Far  purelier  in  his  rushings  to  and  fro. 

After  his  books,  to  flush  his  blood  with  air, 
Then  to  his  books  again.  My  lady’s  cousin. 
Half-sickening  of  his  pensioned  afternoon, 
Drove  in  upon  the  student  once  or  twice. 

Ran  a Malayan  muck  against  the  times. 

Had  golden  hopes  for  France  and  all  man- 
kind, 

Answer’d  all  queries  touching  those  at  home 
With  a heaved  shoulder  and  a saucy  smile. 
And  fain  had  haled  him  out  into  the  world, 
And  air’d  him  there  : his  nearer  friend  would 
say,' 

“ Screw  not  the  cord  too  sharply  lest  it 
snap.” 

Then  left  alone  he  pluck’d  her  dagger  forth 
From  where  his  worldless  heart  had  kept  it 
warm, 

Kissing  his  vows  upon  it  like  a knight. 

And  wrinkled  benchers  often  talk’d  of  him 
Approvingly,  and  prophesied  his  rise  : 

For  heart,  I think,  help’d  head  : her  letters 
too, 

Tho’  far  between,  and  coming  fitfully 
Like  broken  music,  written  as  she  foqnd 
Or  made  occasion,  being  strictly  watch’d. 
Charm’d  him  thro’  every  labyrinth  till  he  saw 
An  end,  a hope,  a light  breaking  upon  him. 

But  they  that  cast  her  spirit  into  flesh. 

Her  worldly-wise  begetters,  plagued  them- 
selves 

To  sell  her,  those  good  parents,  for  her  good. 
Whatever  eldest-born  of  rank  or  w’ealth 
Might  lie  within  their  compass,  him  they 
lured 

Into  their  net  made  pleasant  by  the  baits 
Of  gold  and  beauty,  wooing  him  to  woo. 

So  month  by  month  the  noise  about  their 
doors. 

And  distant  blaze  of  those  dull  banquets, 
made 

The  nightly  wirer  of  their  innocent  hare 
Falter  before  he  took  it.  All  in  vain. 

Sullen,  defiant,  pitying,  wroth,  return’d 
Leolin’s  rejected  rivals  from  their  suit 
So  often,  that  the  folly  taking  wings 
Slipt  o’er  those  lazy  limits  down  the  wind 
With  rumor,  and  became  in  other  fields 


AYLMER'S  FIELD. 


A mockery  to  the  yeomen  over  ale, 

And  laughter  to  their  lords : but  those  at 
home, 

As  hunters  round  a hunted  creature  draw 
The  cordon  close  and  closer  toward  the  death, 
Narrow’d  her  goings  out  and  comings  in  ; 
Forbade  her  first  the  house  of  Averill, 

Then  closed  her  access  to  the  wealthier 
farms. 

Last  from  her  own  home-circle  of  the  poor 
They  barr’d  her : yet  she  bore  it : yet  her 
cheek 

Kept  color : wondrous  ! but,  O mystery ; 
What  amulet  drew  her  down  to  that  old  oak, 
So  old,  that  twenty  years  before,  a part 
Falling  had  let  appear  the  brand  of  John  — 
Once  grovelike,  each  huge  arm  a tree,  but 
now 

The  broken  base  of  a black  tower,  a cave 
Of  touchwood,  with  a single  flourishing 
spray. 

There  the  manorial  lord  too  curiously 
Raking  in  that  millennial  touchwood-dust 
Found  for  himself  a bitter  treasure-trove  ; 
Burst  his  own  wyvern  on  the  seal,  and  read 
Writhing  a letter  from  his  child,  for  which 
Came  at  the  moment  Leolin’s  emissary, 

A crippled  lad,  and  coming  turn’d  to  fly. 

But  scared  with  threats  of  jail  and  halter 
gave 

To  him  that  fluster’d  his  poor  parish  wits 
The  letter  which  he  brought,  ^nd  swore 
besides 

To  play  their  go-between  as  heretofore 
Nor  let  them  know  themselves  betray’d,  and 
then. 

Soul-stricken  at  their  kindness  to  him,  w’ent 
Hating  his  own  lean  heart  and  miserable. 

Thenceforward  oft  from  out  a despot 
dream 

Panting  he  woke,  and  oft  as  early  as  dawn 
Aroused  the  black  republic  on  his  elms. 
Sweeping  the  frothfly  from  the  fescue,  brush’d 
Thro’  the  dim  meadow  toward  his  treasure- 
trove. 

Seized  it,  took  home,  and  to  my  lady,  who 
made 

A downward  crescent  of  her  minion  mouth. 
Listless  in  all  despondence,  read  ; and  tore. 
As  if  the  living  passion  symbol’d  there 
Were  living  nerves  to  feel  the  rent ; and 
burnt. 

Now  chafing  at  his  own  great  self  defied. 
Now  striking  on  huge  stumbling-blocks  of 
scorn 

In  babyisms,  and  dear  diminutives 
Scatter’d  all  over  the  vocabulary 
Of  such  a love  as  like  a chidden  babe. 

After  much  wailing,  hush’d  itself  at  last 
Hopeless  of  answer  : then  tho’  Averill  wrote 
And  bade  him  with  good  heart  sustain  him- 
self— 

All  would  be  well  — the  lover  heeded  not. 
But  passionately  restless  came  and  went. 

And  rustling  once  at  night  about  the  place, 
There  by  a keeper  shot  at,  slightly  hurt. 
Raging  return’d  ; nor  was  it  well  for  het 


Kept  to  the  garden  now,  and  grove  of  pines. 
Watch’d  even  there:  and  one  was  set  to 
watch 

The  watcher,  and  Sir  Aylmer  watch’d  them 
all. 

Yet  bitterer  from  his  readings  : once  indeed. 
Warm’d  with  his  wines,  or  taking  pride  in  her. 
She  look’d  so  sweet,  he  kiss’d  her  tenderly. 
Not  knowing  what  possess’d  him  : that  one 
kiss 

Was  Leolin’s  one  strong  rival  upon  earth  ; 
Seconded,  for  my  lady  follow’d  suit. 

Seem’d  hope’s  returning  rose  ; and  then  en- 
sued 

A Martin’s  summer  of  his  faded  love. 

Or  ordeal  by  kindness  ; after  this 
He  seldom  crost  his  child  without  a sneer  ; 
The  mother  flow’d  in  shallower  acrimonies : 
Never  one  kindly  smile,  one  kindly  word  ; 

So  that  the  gentle  creature  shut  from  all 
Her  charitable  use,  and  face  to  face 
With  twenty  months  of  silence,  slowly  lost 
Nor  greatly  cared  to  lose,  her  hold  on  life. 
Last,  some  low  fever  ranging  round  to  spy 
The  weakness  of  a people  or  a house. 

Like  flies  that  haunt  a wound,  or  deer,  or 
men. 

Or  almost  all  that  is,  hurting  the  hurt  — 
Save  Christ  as  we  believe  him  — found  the 
girl 

And  flung  her  down  upon  a couch  of  fire, 
Where  careless  of  the  household  faces  near, 
And  crying  upon  the  name  of  Leolin, 

She,  and  with  her  the  race  of  Aylmer,  past. 

Star  to  star  vibrates  light : may  soul  to  soul 
Strike  thro’  a finer  element  of  her  own  ? 

So,  — from  afar,  — touch  as  at  once  ? or  why 
That  night,  that  moment,  when  she  named 
his  name. 

Did  the  keen  shriek,  “ Yes  love,  yes  Edith, 
yes,” 

Shrill,  till  the  comrade  of  his  chambers  woke. 
And  came  upon  him  half-arisen  from  sleep. 
With  a weird  bright  eye,  sweating  and  tremb- 

His  hair  as  it  were  crackling  into  flames. 

His  body  half  flung  fora’ard  in  pursuit. 

And  his  long  arms  stretch’d  as  to  grasp  a 
flyer  : 

Nor  knew  he  wherefore  he  had  made  the  cry ; 
And  being  much  befi)ol’d  and  idioted 
By  the  rough  amity  of  the  other,  sank 
As  into  sleep  again.  I'he  second  day, 

My  lady’s  Indian  kinsman  rushing  in, 

A breaker  of  the  bitter  news  from  home. 
Found  a dead  man,  a letter  edged  with  death 
Beside  him,  and  the  dagger  which  himself 
Gave  Edith,  redden’d  with  no  bandit’s  blood  ; 
“ From  Edith  ” was  engraven  on  the  blade. 

Then  Averill  went  and  gazed  upon  his 
death. 

And  when  he  came  again,  his  flock  believed  — 
Beholding  how  the  years  which  are  not  Time’s 
Had  blasted  hfm  — that  many  thousand  days 
Were  dipt  by  horror  from  his  term  of  life. 
Yet  the  sad  mother,  for  the  second  death 


226  AYLMER’S  FIELD, 


Scarce  touch’d  her  thro’  that  nearness  of  the 
first, 

And  being  used  to  find  her  pastor  texts, 

Sent  to  the  harrow’d  brother,  praying  him 
To  speak  before  the  people  of  her  child, 

And  fixt  the  Sabbath.  Darkly  that  day  rose  : 
Autumn’s  mock  sunshine  of  the  faded  woods 
Was  all  the  life  of  it ; for  hard  on  these, 

A breathless  burthen  of  low-folded  heavens 
Stifled  and  chill’d  at  once  : but  every  roof 
Sent  out  a listener : many  too  had  known 
Edith  among  the  hamlets  round,  and  since 
The  parents’  harshness  and  the  hapless  loves 
And  double  death  were  widely  murmur’d, 
left 

Their  own  gray  tower,  or  plain-faced  taber- 
nacle, 

To  hear  him  ; all  in  mourning  these,  and 
those 

With  blots  of  it  about  them,  ribbon,  glove 
Or  kerchief ; while  the  church,  — one  night, 
except 

For  greenish  glimmerings  thro’ the  lancets, 
— made 

Still  paler  the  pale  head  of  him,  who  tower’d 
Above  them,  with  his  hopes  in  either  grave. 

Long  o’er  his  bent  brows  linger’d  Averill, 

His  face  magnetic  to  the  hand  from  which 
Livid  he  pluck’d  it  forth,  and  labor’d  thro’ 
His  brief  prayer-prelude,  gave  the  verse  “ Be- 
hold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ! ” 

But  lapsed  into  so  long  a pause  again 
As  half  amazed,  half  frighted  all  his  flock  : 
Then  from  his  height  and  loneliness  of  grief 
Bore  down  in  flood,  and  dash’d  his  angry 
heart 

Against  the  desolations  of  the  world. 

Never  since  our  bad  earth  became  one  sea. 
Which  rolling  o’er  the  palaces  of  the  proud. 
And  all  but  those  who  knew  the  living  God — 
Eight  that  were  left  to  make  a purer  world — 
When  since  had  flood,  fire,  earthquake, 
thunder,  wrought 

Such  waste  and  havoc  as  the  idolatries. 
Which  from  the  low  light  of  mortality 
Shot  up  their  shadows  to  the  Heaven  of 
Heavens, 

And  vvorshipt  their  own  darkness  as  the 
Highest? 

“ Gash  thyself,  priest,  and  honor  thy  brute 
Baal, 

And  to  thy  worst  self  sacrifice  thyself, 

For  with  thy  worst  self  hast  thou  clothed  thy 
God.” 

Then  came  a Lord  in  no  wise  like  to  Baal. 
The  babe  shall  lead  the  lion.  Surely  now 
The  wilderness  shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Crown  thyself,  worm,  and  worship  thine  own 
lusts ! — 

No  coarse  and  blockish  God  of  acreage 
Stands  at  thy  gate  for  thee  to  grovel  to  — 
Thy  God  is  far  diffused  in  noble  groves 
And  princely  halls,  and  farms,  and  flowing 
lawns. 

And  heaps  of  living  gold  that  daily  grow, 


And  title-scrolls  and  gorgeous  heraldries. 

In  such  a shape  dost  thou  behold  thy  God. 
Thou  wilt  not  gash  thy  flesh  for  him  ; for 
thine 

Fares  richly,  in  fine  linen,  not  a hair 
Ruffled  upon  the  scarfskin,  even  while 
The  deathless  ruler  of  thy  dying  house 
Is  wounded  to  the  death  that  cannot  die  ; 
And  tho’  thou  numberest  with  the  followers 
Of  One  who  cried  “ Leave  all  and  follow  me.” 
Thee  therefore  with  His  light  about  thy  feet. 
Thee  with  His  message  ringing  in  thine  ears. 
Thee  shall  thy  brother  man,  the  Lord  from 
Heaven, 

Born  of  a village  girl,  carpenter’s  son, 
Wonderful,  Prince  of  peace,  the  Mighty  God, 
Count  the  more  base  idolater  of  the  two  ; 
Crueller  : as  not  passing  thro’  the  fire 
Bodies,  but  souls — thy  children’s  — thro’  the 
smoke. 

The  blight  of  low  desires  — darkening  thine 
own 

To  thine  own  likeness  ; or  if  one  of  these. 
Thy  better  born  unhappily  from  thee, 

Should,  as  by  miracle,  grow  straight  and 
fair  — 

Friends,  I was  bid  to  speak  of  such  a one 
By  those  who  most  have  cause  to  sorrow  for 
her  — 

Fairer  than  Rachel  by  the  palmy  well. 

Fairer  than  Ruth  among  the  fields  of  com. 
Fair  as  the  Angel  that  said  “hail”  she 
seem’d. 

Who  entering  fill’d  the  house  with  sudden 
light. 

For  so  mine  own  was  brighten’d  : where  in- 
deed 

The  roof  so  lowly  but  that  beam  of  Heaven 
Dawn’d  sometimes  thro’  the  doorway  ? whose 
the  babe 

Too  ragged  to  be  fondled  on  her  lap. 

Warm’d  at  her  bosom?  The  poor  child  of 
shame. 

The  common  care  whom  no  one  cared  for, 
leapt 

To  greet  her,  wasting  his  forgotten  heart. 

As  with  the  mother  he  had  never  known. 

In  gambols  ; for  her  fresh  and  innocent  eyes 
j Had  such  a star  of  morning  in  their  blue, 

I That  all  neglected  places  of  the  field 
Broke  into  nature’s  music  when  they  saw  her. 
Low  was  her  voice,  but  won  mysterious  way 
Thro’  the  seal’d  ear,  to  which  a louder  one 
Was  all  but  silence  — free  of  alms  her  hand  — - 
The  hand  that  robed  your  cottage-walls  with 
flowers 

Has  often  toil’d  to  clothe  your  little  ones  ; 
How  often  placed  upon  the  sick  man’s  brow 
Cool’d  it,  or  laid  his  feverous  pillow  smooth  ! 
Had  you  one  sorrow  and  she  shared  it  not? 
One  burthen  and  she  would  not  lighten  it? 
One  spiritual  doubt  she  did  not  soothe  ? 

Or  when  some  heat  of  difference  sparkled  out, 
How  sweetly  would  she  glide  between  your 
wraths, 

And  steal  you  from  each  other  ! for  she  walk’d 
Wearing  the  light  yoke  of  that  Lord  of  love. 
Who  still’d  the  rolling  wave  of  Galilee  ! 


AYLMER'S  FIELD, 


227 


And  one  — of  him  t was  not  bid  to  speak  — 
Was  always  witli  her,  whom  you  also  knew. 
Him  too  you  loved,  for  he  was  worthy  love. 
And  these  had  been  together  from  the  first ; 
They  might  have  been  together  till  the  last. 
Friends,  this  frail  bark  of  ours,  when  sorely 
tried, 

May  wTCjk  itself  without  the  pilot’s  guilt, 
Without  the  captain’s  knowledge  : hope  with 
me. 

Whose  shame  is  that,  if  he  went  hence  with 
shame? 

Nor  mine  the  fault,  if  losing  both  of  these 
I cry  to  vacant  chairs  and  widow’d  walls, 

“ My  house  is  left  unto  me  desolate.” 

While  thus  he  spoke,  his  hearers  wept ; but 
some, 

Sons  of  the  glebe,  with  other  frowns  than 
those 

That  knit  themselves  for  summer  shadow, 
scowl’d 

At  their  great  lord.  He,  when  it  seem’d  he 
saw 

No  pale  sheet-lightnings  from  afar,  but  fork’d 
Of  the  near  storm,  and  aiming  at  his  head. 
Sat  anger-charm’d  from  sorrow,  soldier  like. 
Erect ; but  when  the  preacher’s  cadence 
flow’d 

Softening  thro*  all  the  gentle  attributes 
Of  his  lost  child,  the  wife,  who  watch’d  his 
face. 

Paled  at  a sudden  twitch  of  his  iron  mouth  ; 
And,  “ O pray  God  that  he  hold  up,”  she 
thought, 

“ Or  surely  I shall  shame  myself  and  him.” 

“Nor  yours  the  blame — for  who  beside 
your  hearths 

Can  take  her  place  — if  echoing  me  you  cry 
‘ Our  house  is  left  unto  us  desolate  ’ ? 

But  thou,  O thou  that  killest,  hadst  thou 
known, 

O thou  that  stonest,  hadst  thou  understood 
The  things  belonging  to  thy  peace  and  ours  ! 
Is  there  no  prophet  but  the  voice  that  calls 
Doom  upon  kings,  or  in  the  w-aste  ‘ Repent  ’ ? 
Is  not  our  own  child  on  the  narrow  way, 

Who  down  to  those  that  saunter  in  the  broad 
Cries  ‘ Come  up  hither,’  as  a prophet  to  us  ? 
Is  there  no  stoning  save  with  flint  and  rock  ? 
Yes,  as  the  dead  we  weep  for  testify  — 

No  desolation  but  by  sword  and  fire  ? 

Yes,  as  your  moanings  witness,  and  myself 
Am  lonelier,  darker,  earthlier  for  my  loss. 
Give  me  your  prayers,  for  he  is  past  your 
prayers, 

Not  past  the  living  foUnt  of  pity  in  Heaven. 
But  I that  thought  myself  long-suffering, 
meek, 

Exceeding  ‘ poor  in  spirit’  — how  the  words 
Have  twisted  back  upon  themselves  and 
mean 

Vileness,  we  are  grown  so  proud  — I wish’d 
my  voice 

A rushing  tempest  of  the  wrath  of  God 
To  blow  these  sacrifices  thro’  the  world  — 
Sent  like  the  twelve-divided  concubine 


To  inflame  the  tribes  ; but  there  — out  yonder 
— earth 

■Lightens  from  her  own  central  Hell  — O 
there 

The  red  fruit  of  an  old  idolatry  — 

The  heads  of  chiefs  and  princes  fall  so  fast, 
They  cling  together  in  the  ghastly  sack  — 
The  land  all  shambles  — naked  marriages 
Flash  from  the  bridge,  and  ever-murder’d 
France, 

By  shores  that  darken  with  the  gathering 
wolf. 

Runs  in  a river  of  blood  to  the  sick  sea. 

Is  this  a time  to  madden  madness  then  ? 

Was  this  a time  for  these  to  flaunt  their  pride  ? 
May  Pharaoh’s  darkness,  folds  as  dense  as 
those 

Which  hid  the  Holiest  from  the  people’s  eyes 
Ere  the  great  death,  shroud  this  great  sin 
from  all : 

Doubtless  our  narrow  world  must  canvass  it ; 

0 rather  pray  for  those  and  pity  them 

Who  thro’  their  own  desire  accomplish’d 
bring 

Their  own  gray  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave  — 

Who  broke  the  bond  which  they  desired  to 
break  — 

Which  else  had  link’d  their  race  with  times 
to  come  — 

Who  wove  coarse  webs  to  snare  her  purity. 
Grossly  contriving  their  dear  daughter’s 
good  — 

Poor  souls,  and  knew  not  what  they  did, 
but  sat 

Ignorant,  devising  their  own  daughter’s 
death  ! 

May  not  that  earthly  chastisement  suffice? 
Have  not  our  love  and  reverence  left  them 
bare  ? 

Will  not  another  take  their  heritage  ? 

Will  there  be  children’s  laughter  in  their  hall 
Forever  and  forever,  or  one  stone 
Left  on  another,  or  is  it  a light  thing 
That  I their  guest,  their  host,  their  ancient 
friend, 

1 made  by  these  the  last  of  all  my  race 
Must  cry  to  these  the  last  of  theirs,  as  cried 
Christ  ere  His  agony  to  those  that  swore 
Not  by  the  temple  but  the  gold,  and  made 
Their  own  traditions  God,  and  slew  the  Lord, 
And  left  their  memories  a world’s  curse  — 

‘Behold, 

Your  house  is  left  unto  you  desolate  ’ ? ” 

Ended  he  had  not,  but  she  brook’d  no 
more  : 

Long  since  her  heart  had  beat  remorselessly, 
Her  crampt-up  sorrow  painki  her,  and  a sense 
Of  meanness  in  her  unresisting  life. 

Then  their  eyes  vext  her  ; for  on  entering 
He  had  cast  the  curtains  of  their  seat  aside  — 
Black  velvet  of  the  costliest  — she  herself 
Had  seen  to  that : fain  had  she  closed  them 
now, 

Yet  dared  not  stir  to  do  it,  only  near’d 
Her  husband  inch  by  inch,  but  when  she  laid, 
Wifelike,  her  hand  in  one  of  his,  he  veil’d 


228  SEA  BEE  A MS. 


His  face  with  the  other,  and  at  once,  as  falls 
A creeper  when  the  prop  is  broken,  fell 
The  woman  shrieking  at  his  feet,  and  swoon’d. 
Then  her  own  people  bore  along  the  nave 
Her  pendent  hands,  and  narrow  meagre  face 
Seam’d  with  the  shallow  cares  of  fifty  years  : 
And  her  the  Lord  of  all  the  landscape  round 
Ev’n  to  its  last  horizon,  and  of  all 
Who  peer’d  at  him  so  keenly,  follow’d  out 
Tall  and  erect,  but  in  the  middle  aisle 
Reel’d,  as  a footsore  ox  in  crowded  ways 
Stumbling  across  the  market  to  his  death, 
Unpitied  ; for  he  groped  as  blind,  and  seem’d 
Always  about  to  fall,  grasping  the  pews 
And  oaken  finials  till  he  touch’d  the  door; 
Yet  to  the  lychgate,  where  his  chariot  stood. 
Strode  from  the  porch,  tall  and  erect  again. 

But  nevermore  did  either  pass  the  gate 
Save  under  pall  with  bearers.  In  one  month. 
Thro’  weary  and  yet  ever  wearier  hours. 

The  childless  mother  went  to  seek  her  child  ; 
And  when  he  felt  the  silence  of  his  house 
About  him,  and  the  change  and  not  the 
change. 

And  those  fixt  eyes  of  painted  ancestors 
Staring  forever  from  their  gilded  walls 
On  him  their  last  descendant,  his  own  head 
Began  to  droop,  to  fall ; the  man  became 
Imbecile  ; his  one  word  was  “ desolate  ” ; 
Dead  for  two  years  before  his  death  w^as  he  ; 
But  when  the  second  Christmas  came,  es- 
caped 

His  keepers,  and  the  silence  which  he  felt, 
To  find  a deeper  in  the  narrow'  gloom 
By  wife  and  child  ; nor  wanied  at  his  end 
The  dark  retinue  reverencing  death 
At  golden  thresholds  ; nor  from  tender  hearts. 
And  those  who  sorrow’d  o’er  a vanish’d  race. 
Pity,  the  violet  on  the  tyrant’s  grave. 

Then  the  great  Hall  was  wholly  broken  down. 
And  the  broad  woodland  parcell’d  into  farms  ; 
And  where  the  two  contrived  their  daughter’s 
good, 

Lies  the  hawk’s  cast,  the  mole  has  made  his 
run. 

The  hedgehog  underneath  the  plantain  bores, 
The  rabbit  fondles  his  own  harmless  face. 
The  slow-worm  creeps,  and  the  thin  weasel 
there 

Follows  the  mouse,  and  all  is  open  field. 


SEA  DREAMS. 

A CITY  clerk,  but  gently  born  and  bred  ; 

His  w'ife,  an  unknowm  artist’s  orphan  child  — 

One  babe  was  theirs,  a Margaret,  three  years 
old  : 

They,  thinking  that  her  clear  germander  eye 

Droopt  in  the  giant-factoried  city-gloom. 

Came,  with  a month’s  leave  given  them,  to 
the  sea  : 

For  which  his  gains  were  dock’d,  however 
small : 

Small  were  his  gains,  and  hard  his  w'ork ; 
besides, 


Their  slender  household  fortunes  (for  the  man 
Had  risk’d  his  little)  like  the  little  thrift. 
Trembled  in  perilous  places  o’er  a deep  ; 
And  oft,  when  sitting  all  alone,  his  face 
Would  darken,  as  he  cursed  his  credulous- 
ness. 

And  that  one  unctuous  mouth  which  lured 
him,  rogue. 

To  buy  strange  shares  in  some  Peruvian 
mine. 

Now  seaward-bound  for  health  they  gain’d  a 
coast, 

All  sand  and  cliff  and  deep-inrunning  cave. 
At  close  of  day ; slept,  woke,  and  went  the 
next. 

The  Sabbath,  pious  variers  from  the  church. 
To  chapel;  where  a heated  pulpiteer. 

Not  preaching  simple  Christ  to  simple  men. 
Announced  the  coming  doom,  and  fulminated 
Against  the  scarlet  w'oman  and  her  creed  ; 
For  sideways  up  he  swung  his  arms,  and 
shriek’d, 

“Thus,  thus  with  violence,”  ev’n  as  if  he 
held 

The  Apocalyptic  millstone,  and  himself 
Were  that  great  Angel ; “thus  with  violence 
Shall  Babylon  be  cast  into  the  sea ; 

Then  comes  the  close.”  The  gentle-hearted 
wife 

Sat  shuddering  at  the  ruin  of  a w’orld  ; 

He  at  his  ow'n  : but  when  the  wordy  storm 
Had  ended,  forth  they  came  and  paced  the 
shore. 

Ran  in  and  out  the  long  sea-framing  caves. 
Drank  the  large  air,  and  saw,  but  scarce  be- 
lieved 

(The  sootflake  of  so  many  a summer  still 
Clung  to  their  fancies)  that  they  saw,  the  sea. 
So  now  on  sand  they  walk’d,  and  now  on 
cliff. 

Lingering  about  the  thymy  promontories. 

Till  all  the  sails  w'ere  darken’d  in  the  west. 
And  rosed  in  the  east : then  homeward  and  to 
bed  : 

Where  she,  who  kept  a tender  Christian  hope 
Haunting  a holy  text,  and  still  to  that 
Returning,  as  the  bird  returns,  at  night, 

“ Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your  wrath,” 
Said,  “Love,  forgive  him”;  but  he  did  not 
speak  ; 

And  silenced  by  that  silence  lay  the  W'ife, 
Remembering  her  dear  Lord  who  died  for 
all. 

And  musing  on  the  little  lives  of  men. 

And  how  they  mar  this  little  by  their  feuds. 

But  while  the  two  were  sleeping,  a full  tide 
Rose  with  ground-swell,  which,  on  the  fore- 
most rocks 

Touching,  upjetted  in  spirts  of  wild  sea- 
smoke. 

And  scaled  in  sheets  of  wasteful  foam,  and 
fell 

In  vast  sea-cataracts — ever  and  anon 
Dead  claps  of  thunder  from  within  the  cliffs 
Heard  thro’  the  living  roar.  At  this  the  babe, 
Their  Margaret  cradled  near  them,  w'aii’d 
and  woke  ..  — 


SEA  DREAMS, 


229 


The  mother,  and  the  father  suddenly  cried, 

“ A wreck,  a wreck  I ” then  turn’d,  and  groan- 
ing said, 

“ Forgive  ! How  many  will  say,  * Forgive,’ 
and  find 

A sort  of  absolution  in  the  sound 
To  hate  a little  longer  1 No  ; the  sin 
That  neither  God  nor  man  can  well  forgive, 
Hypocrisy,  I saw  it  in  him  at  once. 

Is  it  so  true  that  second  thoughts  are  best  ? 
Not  first,  and  third,  which  are  a riper  first  ? 
Too  ripe,  too  late  ! they  come  too  late  for 
use. 

Ah  love,  there  surely  lives  in  man  and  beast 
Something  divine  to  warn  them  of  their  foes  ; 
And  such  a sense,  'when  I first  fronted  him, 
Said,  ‘ Trust  him  not  ’ ; but  after,  when  I 
came 

To  know  him  more,  I lost  if,  knew  him  less  ; 
Fought  with  what  seem’d  my  own  un- 
charity ; 

Sate  his  tab.e  ; drank  his  costly  wines  ; 

Made  more  and  more  allowance  for  his  talk  ; 
Went  further,  fool ! and  trusted  him  with  all. 
All  my  poor  scrapings  from  a dozen  years 
Of  dust  and  deskwork ; there  is  no  such 
mine. 

None  ; but  a gulf  of  ruin,  swallowing  gold. 
Not  making.  Ruin’d  ! ruin’d  ! the  sea  roars 
Ruin  ; a fearful  night  1 ” 

“ Not  fearful ; fair,” 
Said  the  good  wife,  “ if  every  star  in  heaven 
Can  make  it  fair : you  do  but  hear  the  tide. 
Had  you  ill  dreams  ? ” 

“ O yes,”  he  said,  “ I dream’d 
Of  such  a tide  swelling  toward  the  land. 

And  I from  out  the  boundless  outer  deep 
Swept  with  it  to  the  shore,  and  enter’d  one 
Of  those  dark  caves  that  run  beneath  the 
cliffs. 

I thought  the  motion  of  the  boundless  deep 
Bore  through  the  cave,  and  I was  heaved 
upon  it 

In  darkness  : then  I saw  one  lovely  star 
Larger  and  larger.  ‘ What  a world,’  I 
thought, 

‘ To  live  in  ! ’ but  in  moving  on  I found 
Only  the  landward  exit  of  the  cave, 

Bright  with  the  sun  upon  the  stream  beyond  : 
And  near  the  light  a giant  woman  sat. 

All  over  earthy,  like  a piece  of  earth, 

A pickaxe  in  her  hand : then  out  I slipt 
Into  a land  all  sun  and  blossom,  trees 
As  high  as  heaven,  and  every  bird  that  sings  : 
And  here  the  night-light  flickering  in  my 
eyes 

Awoke  me.” 

“ That  was  then  your  dream,”  she  said, 
“ Not  sad,  but  sweet.” 

**  So  sweet,  I lay,”  said  he, 
“ And  mused  upon  it,  drifting  up  the  stream 
In  fancy,  till  I slept  again,  and  pieced 
The  broken  vision  ; for  1 dream’d  that  still 


The  motion  of  the  great  deep  bore  me  on. 
And  that  the  woman  walk’d  upon  the  brink ; 

I wonder’d  at  her  strength,  and  ask’d  her  of 
it : 

‘It  came,’  she  said,  ‘by  working  in  the 
mines’  : 

0 then  to  ask  her  of  my  shares,  I thought  ; 
And  ask’d ; but  not  a word ; she  shook  her 

head. 

And  then  the  motion  of  the  current  ceased, 
And  there  was  rolling  thunder ; and  we 
reach’d 

A mountain,  like  a wall  of  burrs  and  thorns  ; 
But  she  with  her  strong  feet  up  the  steep  hill 
Trod  out  a path  : I follow’d  ; and  at  top, 

She  pointed  seaward  : there  a fleet  of  glass, 
That  seem’d  a fleet  of  jewels  under  me. 
Sailing  along  before  a gloomy  cloud 
That  not  one  moment  ceased  to  thunder,  past 
In  sunshine  ; right  across  its  track  there  lay, 
Down  in  the  water,  a long  reef  of  gold. 

Or  what  seem’d  gold  : and  1 was  glad  at  first 
To  think  that  in  our  often-ransacked  world 
Still  so  much  gold  was  left ; and  then  I fear’d 
Lest  the  gay  navy  there  should  splinter  on  it. 
And  fearing  waved  my  arm  to  warn  them  off ; 
An  idle  signal,  for  the  brittle  fleet 
(I  thought  1 could  have  died  to  save  it) 
near’d. 

Touch’d,  clink’d,  and  clash’d,  and  vanish’d, 
and  I w'oke, 

1 heard  the  clash  so  clearly.  Now  I see 
My  dream  was  Life ; the  woman  honest 

Work  ; 

And  my  poor  venture  but  a fleet  of  glass, 
Wreck’d  on  a reef  of  visionary  gold.” 

“ Nay,”  said  the  kindly  wife  to  comfort 
him, 

“ You  raised  your  arm,  you  tumbled  down 
and  broke 

The  glass  with  little  Margaret’s  medicine  in 
it ; 

And,  breaking  that,  you  made  and  broke  your 
dream  : 

A trifle  makes  a dream,  a trifle  breaks.” 

“ No  trifle,”  groan’d  the  husband  ; “ yes- 
terday 

I met  him  suddenly  in  the  street,  and  ask’d 
That  which  I ask’d  the  woman  in  my  dream. 
Like  her,  he  shook  his  head.  ‘ Show  me  the 
books ! ’ 

He  dodged  me  with  a long  and  loose  account. 
‘ The  books,  the  books  I ’ but  he,  he  could 
not  wait. 

Bound  on  a matter  of  life  and  death  : 

When  the  great  Books  (see  Daniel  seven  and 
ten) 

Were  open’d,  I should  find  he  meant  me 
w'ell  : 

And  then  began  to  bloat  himself,  and  ooze 
All  over  with  the  fat  affectionate  smile 
That  makes  the  widow  lean.  ‘ My  dearest 
friend. 

Have  faith,  have  faith  1 We  live  by  faith,’ 
said  he  ; 

‘ And  all  things  work  together  for  the  good 


SEA  DREAMS. 


230 

Of  those’  — it  makes  me  sick  to  quote  him 
— last 

Gript  my  hand  hard,  and  with  God-bless-you 
went. 

I stood  like  one  that  had  received  a blow  : 

I found  a hard  friend  in  his  loose  accounts, 

A loose  one  in  the  hard  grip  of  his  hand, 

A curse  in  his  God-bless-you  : then  my  eyes 
Pursued  him  down  the  street,  and  far  away. 
Among  the  honest  shoulders  of  the  crowd, 
Read  rascal  in  the  motions  of  his  back, 

And  scoundrel  in  the  supple-sliding  knee.” 

“Was  he  so  bound,  poor  soul?”  said  the 
good  wife  ; 

“ So  are  we  all : but  do  not  call  him,  love. 
Before  you  prove  him,  rogue,  and  proved, 
forgive. 

His  gain  is  loss ; for  he  that  wrongs  his  friend 
Wrongs  himself  more,  and  ever  bears  about 
A silent  court  of  justice  in  his  breast. 

Himself  the  judge  and  jury,  and  himself 
The  prisoner  at  the  bar,  ever  condemn’d  : 
And  that  drags  down  his  life : then  comes 
what  comes 

Hereafter  : and  he  meant,  he  said  he  meant. 
Perhaps  he  meant,  or  partly  meant,  you 
well.” 

“‘With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye 
askew  ’ — 

Love,  let  me  quote  these  lines,  that  you  may 
learn 

A man  is  likewise  counsel  for  himself. 

Too  often  in  that  silent  court  of  yours  — 

‘ With  all  his  conscience  and  one  eye  askew. 
So  false,  he  partly  took  himself  for  true  ; 
Whose  pious  talk,  when  most  his  heart  was 
dry. 

Made  wet  the  crafty  crowsfoot  round  his  eye ; 
Who,  never  naming  G©d  except  for  gain. 

So  never  took  that  useful  name  in  vain  ; 
Made  Him  his  catspaw  and  the  Cross  his 
tool, 

And  Christ  the  bait  to  trap  his  dupe  and  fool : 
Nor  deeds  of  gift,  but  gifts  of  grace  he  forged, 
And  snakelike  slimed  his  victim  ere  he 
gorged ; 

And  oft  at  Bible  meetings,  o’er  the  rest 
Arising,  did  his  holy  oily  best. 

Dropping  the  too  rough  H in  Hell  and 
Heaven, 

To  spread  the  Word  by  which  himself  had 
thriven.’ 

How  like  you  this  old  satire  ? ” 

“ Nay,”  she  said, 

*'  I loathe  it  : he  had  never  kindly  heart. 

Nor  ever  cared  to  better  his  own  kind. 

Who  first  wrote  satire  with  no  pity  in  it. 

But  will  you  hear  my  dream,  for  I had  one 
That  altogether  went  to  music  ? Still 
It  awed  me.” 

Then  she  told  it,  having  dream’d 
Of  that  same  coast. 

— “ But  round  the  North,  a light. 


A belt,  it  seem’d,  of  luminous  vapor,  lay. 

And  ever  in  it  a low  musical  note 
Swell’d  up  and  died  ; and,  as  it  swell’d,  a 
ridge 

Of  breaker  issued  from  the  belt,  and  still 
Grew  with  the  growing  note,  and  when  the 
note 

Had  reach’d  a thunderous  fulness,  on  those 
cliffs 

Broke,  mixt  with  awful  light  (the  same  as 
that 

Living  within  the  belt)  whereby  she  saw 
That  all  those  lines  of  cliffs  were  cliffs  no 
more. 

But  huge  cathedral  fronts  of  every  age. 
Grave,  florid,  stem,  as  far  as  eye  could  see. 
One  after  one : and  then  the  great  ridge  drew, 
Lessening  to  the  lessening  music,  back. 

And  past  into  the  belt  and  swell’d  again 
Slowly  to  music:  ever  when  it  broke 
The  statues,  king  or  saint,  or  founder,  fell ; 
Then  from  the  gaps  and  chasms  of  ruin  left 
Came  men  and  women  in  dark  clusters  round. 
Some  crying  ‘ Set  them  up  ! they  shall  not 
fall  ! ’ 

And  others,  ‘Let  them  lie,  for  they  have 
fall’n.’ 

And  still  they  strove  and  wrangled  ; and  she 
grieved 

In  her  strange  dream,  she  knew  not  why,  to 
find 

Their  wildest  wailings  never  out  of  tune 
With  that  sweet  note;  and  ever  as  their 
shrieks 

Ran  highest  up  the  gamut,  that  great  wave 
Returning,  while  none  mark’d  it,  on  the 
crowd 

Broke,  mixt  w'ith  awful  light,  and  show’d 
their  eyes 

Glaring,  and  passionate  looks,  and  swept 
away 

The  men  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  men  of 
stone. 

To  the  waste  deeps  together. 

“Thenifixt 

My  wistful  eyes  on  two  fair  images. 

Both  crown’d  with  stars  and  high  among  the 
stars,  — 

The  Virgin  Mother  standing  w'ith  her  child 
High  up  on  one  of  those  dark  minster- 
fronts  — 

Till  she  began  to  totter,  and  the  child 
Clung  to  the  mother,  and  sent  out  a cry 
Which  mixt  with  little  Margaret’s,  and  I 
w'oke. 

And  my  dream  awed  me:  — well  — but  what 
are  dreams  ? 

Yours  came  but  from  the  breaking  of  a glass. 
And  mine  but  from  the  crying  of  a child.” 

“ Child  ? No  ! ” said  he,  “ but  this  tide’s 
roar,  and  his, 

Our  Boanerges,  with  his  threats  of  doom. 
And  loud-lung’d  Antibabylonianisms 
^Altho’  I grant  but  little  music  there) 

Went  both  to  make  your  dream  : but  if  there 
were 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


A music  harmonizing  our  wild  cries, 
Sphere-music  such  as  that  you  dream’d  about, 
Why,  that  would  make  our  passions  far  too 
like 

The  discords  dear  to  the  musician.  No  — 
One  shriek  of  hate  would  jar  all  the  hymns 
of  heaven  ; 

True  Devils  with  no  ear,  they  howl  in  tune 
With  nothing  but  the  Devil ! ” 

“ ‘ True  ’ indeed  ! 

One  of  our  town,  but  later  by  an  hour 
Here  than  ourselves,  spoke  with  me  on  the 
shore ; 

While  you  w'ere  running  down  the  sands, 
and  made 

The  dimpled  flounce  of  the  sea-furbelow 
flap. 

Good  man,  to  please  the  child.  She  brought 
strange  news. 

Why  were  you  silent  when  I spoke  to-night?  , 
I had  set  my  heart  on  your  forgiving  him 
Before  you  knew.  We  musi  forgive  the 
dead.” 

“ Dead  ! who  is  dead?  ” 

“ The  man  your  eye  pursued. 
A little  after  you  had  parted  with  him. 

He  suddenly  dropt  dead  of  heart-disease.” 

“Dead?  he?  of  heart-disease ? what  heart 
had  he 

To  die  of?  dead  I ” 

“ Ah,  dearest,  if  there  be 
A devil  in  man,  there  is  an  angel  too. 

And  if  he  did  that  wTong  you  charge  him 
with. 

His  angel  broke  his  heart.  But  your  rough 
voice 

(You  spoke  so  loud)  has  roused  the  child 
again. 

Sleep,  little  birdie,  sleep  ! will  she  not  sleep 
Without  her  ‘little  birdie  ’ ? well  then,  sleep, 
And  I will  sing  you  ‘ birdie.’  ” 


Saying  this. 

The  woman  half  turn’d  round  from  him  she 
loved. 

Left  hirn  one  hand,  and  reaching  thro’  the 
night 

Her  other,  found  (for  it  w'as  close  beside) 
And  half  embraced  the  basket  cradle-head 
With  one  soft  arm,  which,  like  the  pliant 
bough 

That  moving  moves  the  nest  and  nestling, 
sw'ay’d 

The  cradle,  while  she  sang  this  baby  song. 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day? 

Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie. 

Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 

Birdie,  rest  a little  longer. 

Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 

So  she  rests  a little  longer. 

Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say. 

In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 

Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 

Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 

Baby,  sleep  a little  longer. 

Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 

If  she  sleeps  a little  longer. 

Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

“ She  sleeps  : let  us  too,  let  all  evil,  sleep. 
He  also  sleeps  — another  sleep  than  ours. 

He  can  do  no  more  wrong  : forgive  him,  dear. 
And  I shall  sleep  the  sounder  ! ” 

Then  the  man, 

“ His  deeds  yet  live,  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 
Yet  let  your  sleep  for  this  one  night  be  sound  : 
I do  forgive  him  ! ” 

“ Thanks,  my  love,”  she  said, 
“Your  own  will  be  the  sweeter,”  and  they 
slept. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


I. 

And  Willy,  my  eidest-bom,  is  gone,  you  say,  little  Anne  ? 

•Ruddy  and  white,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  he  looks  like  a man. 

And  Willy’s  wife  has  written  : she  never  was  over-w'ise, 

Never  the  wife  for  Willy  : he  would  n’t  take  my  advice. 

n. 

For,  Annie,  you  see,  her  father  was  not  the  man  to  save. 

Had  n’t  a head  to  manage,  and  drank  himself  into  his  grave. 

Pretty  enough,  very  pretty  ! but  I was  against  it  for  one. 

Eh  1 — but  he  would  n’t  hear  me  — and  Willy,  you  say,  is  gone. 

III. 

Willy,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  the  flower  of  the  flock  ; 

Never  a man  could  fling  him  : for  Willy  stood  like  a rock. 

“ Here ’s  a leg  for  a baby  of  a week  I ” says  doctor : and  he  would  be  bound, 
There  was  not  his  like  that  year  in  twenty  parishes  round. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


232 


IV. 

Strong  of  his  hands,  and  strong  on  his  legs,  but  still  of  his  tongue  ! 
I ought  to  have  gone  before  him  : 1 wonder  he  went  so  young. 

I cannot  cry  for  him,  Annie  : I have  not  long  to  stay  ; 

Perhaps  1 shall  see  him  the  sooner,  for  he  lived  far  away. 

V. 

Why  do  you  look  at  me,  Annie  ? you  think  I am  hard  and  cold ; 
But  all  my  children  have  gone  before  me,  I am  so  old  ; 

I cannot  weep  for  Willy,  nor  can  I weep  for  the  rest ; 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I could  have  wept  with  the  best. 


VI. 

For  I remember  a quarrel  I had  with  your  father,  my  dear, 

All  for  a slanderous  story,  that  cost  me  many  a tear. 

I mean  your  grandfather,  Annie  : it  cost  me  a world  of  woe. 

Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 

VII. 

For  Jenny,  my  cousin,  had  come  to  the  place,  and  I knew  right  well 
That  Jenny  had  tript  in  her  time  : I knew,  but  I would  not  tell. 

And  she  to  be  coming  and  slandering  me,  the  base  little  liar  ! 

But  the  tongue  is  a fire,  as  you  know,  my  dear,  the  tongue  is  a fire. 

VIII. 

And  the  parson  made  it  his  text  that  week,  and  he  said  likewise. 
That  a lie  which  is  half  a truth  is  ever  the  blackest  of  lies. 

That  a lie  which  is  all  a lie  may  be  met  and  fought  with  outright, 
But  a lie  which  is  part  a truth  is  a harder  matter  to  fight. 


IX. 

And  Willy  had  not  been  down  to  the  farm  for  a week  and  a day ; 
And  all  things  look’d  half-dead,  tho’  it  was  the  middle  of  May. 
Jenny,  to  slander  me,  who  knew  what  Jenny  had  been  ! 

But  soiling  another,  Annie,  will  never  make  one’s  self  clean. 


And  I cried  myself  wellnigh  blind,  and  all  of  an  evening  late 
1 climb’d  to  the  top  of  the  garth,  and  stood  by  the  road  at  the  gate. 
The  moon  like  a rick  on  fire  was  rising  over  the  dale. 

And  whit,  whit,  whit,  in  the  bush  beside  me  chirrupt  the  nightingale. 


XI. 

All  of  a sudden  he  stopt : there  past  by  the  gate  of  the  farm, 

Willy,  — he  did  n’t  see  me,  — and  Jenny  hung  on  his  arm. 

Out  into  the  road  I started,  and  spoke  I scarce  knew  how ; 

Ah,  there ’s  no  fool  like  the  old  one  — it  makes  me  angry  now. 

XII. 

Willy  stood  up  like  a man,  and  look’d  the  thing  that  he  meant ; 

Jenny,  the  viper,  made  me  a mocking  courtesy  and  went. 

And  I said,  “ Let  us  part  : in  a hundred  years  it  ’ll  all  be  the  same. 

You  cannot  love  me  at  all,  if  you  love  not  my  good  name.” 

XIII. 

And  he  turn’d,  and  I saw  his  eyes  all  wet,  in  the  sweet  moonshine  : 

“ Sweetheart,  I love  you  so  well  that  your  good  name  is  mine. 

And  what  do  I care  for  Jane,  let  her  speak  of  you  well  or  ill ; 

But  marry  me  out  of  hand  : we  too  shall  be  happy  still.” 

XIV. 

“ Marry  you,  Willy  ! ” said  I,  “ but  I needs  must  speak  my  mind. 

And  I fear  vou  ’ll  listen  to  tales,  be  jealous  and  hard  and  unkind.” 

But  he  turn’d  and  claspt  me  in  his  arms,  and  answer’d,  “ No,  love,  no  ; 
Seventy  years  ago,  my  darling,  seventy  years  ago. 


The  Grandmother. 


THE  GRANDMOTHER. 


So  Willy  and  I were  wedded  : I wore  a lilac  gown  ; 

And  the  ringers  rang  with  a will,  and  he  gave  the  ringers  a crown. 

But  the  first  that  ever  I bare  was  dead  before  he  was  born, 

Shadow  and  shine  is  life,  little  Annie,  flower  and  thorn. 

XVI. 

That  was  the  first  time,  too,  that  ever  I thought  of  death. 

There  lay  the  sweet  little  body  that  never  had  drawn  a breath. 

I had  not  wept,  little  Annie,  not  since  I had  been  a wife  ; 

But  1 wept  like  a child  that  day,  for  the  babe  had  fought  for  his  life. 

XVII. 

His  dear  little  face  was  troubled,  as  if  with  anger  or  pain  : 

I look’d  at  the  still  little  body  — his  trouble  had  all  been  in  vain. 

For  Willy  I cannot  weep,  I shall  see  him  another  morn  ; 

But  I wept  like  a child  for  the  child  that  was  dead  before  he  was  born. 

XVIII. 

But  he  cheer’d  me,  my  good  man,  for  he  seldom  said  me  nay  : 

Kind,  like  a man,  was  he ; like  a man,  too,  would  have  his  way  ; 

Never  jealous  — not  he  : we  had  many  a happy  year  ; 

And  he  died,  and  I could  not  weep  — my  own  time  seem’d  so  near. 

XIX. 

But  I wish’d  it  had  been  God’s  will  that  I,  too,  then  could  have  died  : 
I began  to  be  tired  a little,  and  fain  had  slept  at  his  side. 

And  that  was  ten  years  back,  or  more,  if  I don’t  forget : 

But  as  to  the  children,  Annie,  they  ’re  all  about  me  yet. 


XX. 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  my  Annie  who  left  me  at  two, 

Patter  she  goes,  my  own  little  Annie,  an  Annie  like  you : 

Pattering  over  the  boards,  she  comes  and  goes  at  her  will. 

While  Harry  is  in  the  five-acre  and  Charlie  ploughing  the  hill. 

XXI. 

And  Harry  and  Charlie,  I hear  them  too  — they  sing  to  their  team  ; 
Often  they  come  to  the  door  in  a pleasant  kind  of  a dream. 

They  come  and  sit  by  my  chair,  they  hover  about  my  bed  — 

I am  not  always  certain  if  they  be  alive  or  dead. 

XXII. 

And  yet  I know  for  a truth,  there ’s  none  of  them  left  alive ; 

For  Harry  went  at  sixty,  your  father  at  sixty-five  : 

And  Willy,  my  eldest-born,  at  nigh  threescore  and  ten  ; 

I knew  them  all  as  babies,  and  now  they  ’re  elderly  men. 

XXIII. 

For  mine  is  a time  of  peace,  it  is  not  often  I grieve  ; 

I am  oftener  sitting  at  home  in  my  father’s  farm  at  eve  : 

And  the  neighbors  come  and  laugh  and  gossip,  and  so  do  I ; 

I find  myself  often  laughing  at  things  that  have  long  gone  by. 

XXIV. 

To  be  sure  the  preacher  says,  our  sins  should  make  us  sad  : 

But  mine  is  a time  of  peace,  and  there  is  Grace  to  be  had  ; 

And  God,  not  man,  is  the  Judge  of  us  all  when  life  shall  cease  ; 

And  in  this  Book,  little  Annie,  the  message  is  one  of  Peace. 

XXV. 

And  age  is  a time  of  peace,  so  it  be  free  from  pain. 

And  happy  has  been  my  life  ; but  I would  not  live  it  again. 

I seem  to  be  tired  a little,  that ’s  all,  and  long  for  rest : 

Only  at  your  age,  Annie,  I could  have  wept  with  the  best. 


233 


234 


:s. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

XXVI. 

So  Willie  has  gone,  my  beauty,  my  eldest-born,  my  flower  ; 

But  how  can  I weep  for  Willy,  he  has  but  gone  for  an  hour,  — 
Gone  for  a minute,  my  son,  from  this  room  into  the  next ; 

1,  too,  shall  go  ill  a minute.  What  lime  have  I to  be  vext? 

XXVII. 

And  Willy’s  wife  has  written,  she  never  was  over-wise. 

Get  me  my  glasses,  Annie  : thank  God  that  I keep  my  eyes. 
There  is  but  a trifle  left  you,  when  I shall  have  past  away. 

But  stay  with  the  old  woman  now  : you  cannot  have  long  to  stay. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

OLD  STYLE. 


Wheer  ’asta  bean  saw  long  and  mea  liggin’  ’ere  aloan  ? 

Noorse?  thoort  nowt  o’  a noorse  ; whoy,  doctor ’s  abean  an’  agoSn  : 
Says  that  I moant  ’a  naw  moor  yaale  : but  I beant  a fool : 

Git  ma  my  yaale,  for  I beant  a-gooin’  to  break  my  rule. 


Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  for  a says  what ’s  nawways  true  ; 

Naw  soort  o’  koind  o’  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a do. 

I ’ve  ’ed  my  point  o’  yaale  ivry  noight  sin’  I bean  ’ere. 

An’  I ’ve  ’ed  my  quart  ivry  market-noight  for  foorty  year. 

III. 

Parson ’s  a bean  loikewoise,  an’  a sittin  ’ere  o’  my  bed.  ^ 

“ The  amoighty ’s  a taakin  o’  you  to  ’issen,  my  friend”  *a  said. 

An’  a towd  ma  my  sins,  an ’s  toithe  were  due,  an’  I gied  it  in  bond ; 
I done  my  duty  by  un,  as  I ’a  done  by  the  lond. 

IV. 

Lam’d  a ma’  bea.  I reckons  I ’annot  sa  mooch  to  larn. 

But  a cost  oop,  thot  a did,  ’boot  Bessy  Marris’s  barn. 

Thof  a knaws  I hallus  voated  wi’  Squoire  an’  choorch  an  staate. 
An’  i’  the  woost  o’  toimes  I wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 


V. 

An’  I hallus  coined  to ’s  choorch  afoor  my  Sally  wur  dead, 

An’  ’eerd  un  a bummin’  awaav  loike  a buzzard-clock*  ower  my  yead. 
An’  I niver  knaw’d  whot  a mean’d  but  I thowl  a ’ad  summut  to  saay, 
An’  I thowt  a said  whot  a owt  to  ’a  said  an’  I corned  awaay. 


Bessy  Marris’s  barn  ! tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to  mea. 

Mowt  a bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a bad  un,  shea. 

’Siver,  I kep  un,  I kep  un,  my  lass,  tha  mun  understood ; 

I done  my  duty  by  un  as  I ’a  done  by  the  lond. 

VII. 

But  Parson  a comes  an’  a goos,  an’  a says  it  easy  p’  freeS 
“ The  amoighty ’s  a taakin  o’  you  to  ’issen,  my  friend,”  says  ’ea. 

I weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thof  summun  said  it  in  ’aaste  : 

But  a reads  wonn  sarmin  a weeak,  an’  I ’a  stubb’d  Thornaby  waaste. 

VIII. 

D’  ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ? naw,  naw,  tha  was  not  born  then  , 
Theer  wur  a boggle  in  it,  I often  ’eerd  un  mysen  : 

Moast  loike  a butter-bump,  t for  I ’eerd  un  aboot  an  aboot. 

But  I stubb’d  un  oop  wi’  the  lot,  and  raaved  an’  rembled  un  oot. 

* Cockchafer.  t Bittern. 


TITHONUS. 


235 


Reaper’s  it  vvur ; fo’  they  fun  un  theer  a laaid  on  ’is  faace 
Doon  i’  the  woild  ’enemies  *afoor  I corned  to  the  plaace. 

Noaks  or  Thimbleby  — toner  ’ed  shot  an  as  dead  as  a naail. 

Noaks  wur  'ang’d  for  it  oop  at  ’soize  — but  git  ma  my  yaaie. 

X. 

Dubbut  looak  at  the  waaste  : theer  war  n’t  not  fead  for  a cow ; 

Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an’  fuzz,  an’  looak  at  it  now  — 

War  n’t  worth  nowt  a haacre,  an’  now  theer ’s  lots  o’  fead. 

Fourscore  yows  upon  it  an’  some  on  it  doon  in  sead. 

XI. 

Nobbut  a bit  on  it ’s  left,  an’  I mean’d  to  ’a  stubb’d  it  at  fall. 

Done  it  ta-year  1 mean’d,  an’  runn’d  plow  thruff  it  an’  all. 

If  godamoighty  an’  parson  ’ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 

Mea,  wi’  haate  oonderd  haacre  o’  Squoire’s  an’  load  o’  my  oan. 

XII. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a ’s  doing  a-taakin’  o’  mea  ? 

I beant  wonn  as  saws  ’ere  a bean  an’  yonder  a pea  ; 

An’  Squoire  ’ull  be  sa  mad  an’  all  — a’  dear  a’  dear  ! 

And  I ’a  monaged  for  Squoire  come  Michaelmas  thirty  year. 

XIII. 

A mow’t  ’a  taaken  Joanes,  as  ’ant  a ’aapoth  o’  sense. 

Or  a mowt  ’a  taaken  Robins  — a niver  mended  a fence  : 

But  godamoighty  a moost  taake  mea  an’  taake  ma  now 
Wi’  auf  the  cows  to  cauve  an’  Thornaby  holms  to  plow  ! 

XIV. 

Looak  ’ow  quoloty  smoiles  when  they  sees  ma  a passin’  by. 

Says  to  thessen  naw  doot  “ what  a mon  a be  sewer-ly  ! ” 

For  they  knaws  what  I bean  to  Squoire  sin  fust  a corned  to  the  ’All ; 
I done  my  duty  by  Squoire  an’  I done  my  duty  by  all. 


XV. 

Squoire ’s  in  Lunnon,  an’  summun  I reckons  ’ull  ’a  to  wroite. 
For  who ’s  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles  ma  quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer  I bea,  thot  a weant  niver  give  it  to  Joanes, 
Neither  a meant  to  Robins  — a niver  reinbles  the  stoans. 

XVI. 

But  summun ’ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi’  ’is  kittle  o’  steam 
Huzzin’  an’  maazin’  the  blessed  fealds  wi’  the  Divil’s  oan  team 
Gin  I mun  doy  I mun  doy,  an’  loife  they  says  is  sweet. 

But  gin  I mun  doy  I mun  doy,  for  I couldn  abear  to  see  it. 

XVII. 

What  atta  stannin’  theer  for,  an’  dossn  bring  ma  the  yaaie  ? 
Doctor  ’sa  ’tottler,  lass,  and  a ’s  hallus  i’  the  owd  taale  ; 

I weant  break  rules  for  Doctor,  a knaws  naw  moor  nor  a floy  ; 
Git  ma  ray  yaaie  1 tell  tha,  an’  gin  I mun  doy  1 mun  doy. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall. 
The  vapors  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 
Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  be- 
neath. 

And  after  many  a summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes  : I wither  slowly  in  thine  arms. 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A white-hair’d  shadow  roaming  like  a dream 


The  ever  silent  spaces  of  the  East, 
Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  morn. 

Alas  ! for  this  gray  shadow,  onofe  a man  — 
So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 
Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem’d 
To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a God  ! 

I ask’d  thee  “ Give  me  immortality.” 

Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a 
smile. 

Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they 
give. 


• Anemones. 


236  THE  VOYAGE. 


But  thy  strong  Hours  indignant  work’d  their 
wills, 

And  beat  me  down  and  marred  and  wasted  me, 
And  tho’  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me 
maim’d 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth, 
Immortal  age  beside  immortal  youth. 

And  all  I was,  in  ashes.  Can  thy  love. 

Thy  beauty,  make  amends,  tho  even  now, 
Close  over  us,  the  silver  star,  thy  guide. 
Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with 
tears 

To  hear  me?  Let  me  go:  take  back  thy 
gift ; 

Why  should  a man  desire  in  any  way 
To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  ot  ordinance 
Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for 
all? 

A soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart : there  comes 
A glimpse  of  that  dark  wond  where  1 was 
born. 

Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoul- 
ders pure. 

And  bosom  beating  with  a heart  renew’d. 
I'liy  cheek  begins  to  redden  thro’  the  gloom, 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine, 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild 
team 

Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise. 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen’d 
manes. 

And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  ! ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 
In  silence,  then  before  thine  answer  given 
Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy 
tears. 

And  make  me  tremble  lest  a saying  learnt 
In  days  far-off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true? 
“ The  Gods  themselves  cannot  recall  their 
gifts.” 

Ay  me  ! ay  me  ! with  what  another  heart 
In  days  far-off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 
I used  to  watch  — if  I be  he  that  watch’d  — 
The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee  ; saw 
The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings  ; 
Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt 
my  blood  f 

Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson’d"  all 
I'hy  presence  and  thy  portals,  while  I lay. 
Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy- 
warm 

With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss’d 
Whispering  I knew  not  what  of  wild  and 
sweet, 

Like  that  strange  song  I heard  Apollo  sing. 
While  Ilion  like  a mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  forever  in  thine  East : 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 


Are  all  thy  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the 
steam 

Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the 
homes 

Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die. 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me,  and  restore  me  to  the  ground  : 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  wilt  see  my  grave  ; 
I'hou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn  ; 

1 earth  in  earth  forget  these  empty  courts. 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


THE  VOYAGE. 


WRleft  behind  the  painted  buoy 
That  tosses  at  the  harbor-mouth  : 

And  madly  danced  our  hearts  with  joy, 

As  fast  we  fleeted  to  the  South  : 

How  fresh  was  every  sight  and  sound 
On  open  main  or  winding  shore  ! 

We  knew  the  merry  world  was  round, 

And  we  might  sail  forevermore. 

II. 

Warm  broke  the  breeze  against  the  brow. 
Dry  sang  the  tackle,  sang  the  sail : 

The  Lady’s-head  upon  the  prow 

Caught  the  shrill  salt,  and  sheer’d  the  gale. 

The  broad  seas  swell’d  to  meet  the  keel. 

And  swept  behind  : so  quick  the  run. 

We  felt  the  good  ship  shake  and  reel. 

We  seem’d  to  sail  into  the  Sun  1 

III. 

How  oft  w'e  saw  the  Sun  retire. 

And  burn  the  threshold  of  the  night. 

Fall  from  his  Ocean -lane  of  fire. 

And  sleep  beneath  his  pillar’d  light ! 

How  oft  the  purple-skirted  robe 
Of  twilight  slowly  downward  drawn. 

As  thro’  the  slumber  of  the  globe 
Again  we  dash’d  into  the  dawn  ! 

IV. 

New  stars  all  night  above  the  brim 
Of  waters  lighten’d  into  view  ; 

They  climb’d  as  quickly,  for  the  rim 
Changed  every  moment  as  we  flew. 

Far  ran  the  naked  moon  across 
The  houseless  ocean’s  heaving  field. 

Or  flying  shone,  the  silver  boss 
Of  her  own  halo’s  dusky  shield  ; 

V. 

The  peaky  islet  shifted  shapes. 

High  towns  on  hills  were  dimly  seen. 

We  past  long  lines  of  Northern  capes 
And  dewy  Northern  meadows  green. 

We  came  to  warmer  waves,  and  deep 
Across  the  boundless  east  we  drove. 

Where  those  long  swells  of  breaker  sweep 
The  nutmeg  rocks  and  isles  of  clove. 


^ 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CA  UTERE TZ.  — REQUIESCA  : . 


237 


VI. 

By  peaks  that  flamed,  or,  all  in  shade, 
Gloom’d  the  low  coast  and  quivering  brine 
With  ashy  rains,  that  spreading  made 
Fantastic  plume  or  sable  pine  ; 

By  sands  and  steaming  flats,  and  floods 
Of  mighty  mouth,  we  scudded  fast. 

And  hills  and  scarlet-mingled  woods 
Glow’d  for  a moment  as  we  past. 

VII. 

O hundred  shores  of  happy  climes. 

How  swiftly  stream’d  ye  by  the  bark  ! 

At  times  the  whole  sea  burn’d,  at  times 
With  wakes  of  fire  we  tore  the  dark ; 

At  times  a carven  craft  would  shoot 
From  havens  hid  in  fairy  bowers. 

With  naked  limbs  and  flowers  and  fruit. 

But  we  nor  paused  for  fruits  nor  flowers. 

VIII. 

For  one  fair  Vision  ever  fled 
Down  the  waste  waters  day  and  night, 

And  still  we  follow’d  where  she  led 
In  hope  to  gain  upon  her  flight. 

Her  face  was  evermore  unseen, 

And  fixt  upon  the  far  sea-line  ; 

But  each  man  murmured,  “ O my  Queen, 

1 follow  till  I make  thee  mine.” 

I A. 

And  now  we  lost  her,  now  she  gleam’d 
Like  Fancy  made  of  golden  air, 

Now  nearer  to  the  prow  she  seem’d 
Like  Virtue  firm,  like  Knowledge  fair, 

Now  high  on  waves  that  idly  burst 
Like  Heavenly  Hope  she  crown’d  the  sea, 
And  now,  the  bloodless  point  reversed, 

She  bore  the  blade  of  Liberty. 

X. 

And  only  one  among  us  — him 
We  pleased  not  — he  was  seldom  pleased  ; 
He  saw  not  far  : his  eyes  were  dim  : 

But  ours  he  swore  were  all  diseased. 

“A  ship  of  fools,”  he  shriek’d  in  spite, 

“ A ship  of  fools,”  he  sneer’d  and  wept. 
And  overboard  one  stormy  night 
He  cast  his  body,  and  on  we  swept. 

XI. 

And  never  sail  of  ours  was  furl’d 
Nor  anchor  dropt  at  eve  or  mom  ; 

We  loved  the  glories  of  the  world. 

But  laws  of  nature  were  our  scorn  ; 

For  blasts  would  rise  and  rave  and  cease. 

But  whence  were  those  that  drove  the  sail 
Across  the  whirlwind’s  heart  of  peace. 

And  to  and  thro’  the  counter-gale  ? 

XII. 

Again  to  colder  climes  we  came. 

For  still  we  follow’d  where  she  led  : 

Now  mate  is  blind  and  captain  lame. 

And  half  the  crew  are  sick  or  dead. 

But  blind  or  lame  or  sick  or  sownd 
We  follow  that  which  flies  before  : 

We  know  the  merry  world  is  round. 

And  we  may  sail  forevermore. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ. 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest 
white. 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of 
the  night. 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 

I walk’d  with  one  I loved  two  and  thirty 
years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley  while  I walk’d  to-day. 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a mist  that 
rolls  away  ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed, 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of 
the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave 
and  tree. 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  as  a living  voice 
to  me. 


THE  FLOWER. 

Once  in  a golden  hour 
I cast  to  earth  a seed. 

Up  there  came  a flower. 

The  people  said,  a weed. 

To  and  fro  they  went 
Thro’  my  garden-bower. 

And  muttering  discontent 
Cursed  me  and  my  flower. 

Then  it  grew  so  tall 

It  w'ore  a crown  of  light. 

But  thieves  from  o’er  the  wall 
Stole  the  seed  by  night. 

Sow’d  it  far  and  wide 
By  every  town  and  tower. 

Till  all  the  people  cried, 

“ Splendid  is  the  flower.’* 

Read  my  little  fable  : 

He  that  runs  may  read. 

Most  can  raise  the  flowers  now. 
For  all  have  got  tKe  seed. 

And  some  are  pretty  enough. 
And  some  are  poor  indeed  ; 

And  now  again  the  people 
Call  it  but  a weed. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Fair  is  her  cottage  in  its  place. 

Where  yon  broad  water  sweetly  slowly 
glides. 

It  sees  itself  from  thatch  to  base 
Dream  in  the  sliding  tides. 

And  fairer  she.  but  ah,  how  soon  to  die  ! 

Her  quiet  dream  of  life  this  hour  may 
cease. 

Her  peaceful  being  slowly  passes  by 
To  some  more  perfect  peace. 


< 


238  THE  SA IL  OR-BO F.  — THE  ISL  ET.  — THE  R INGL E T, 


THE  SAILOR-BOY. 

He  rose  at  dawn  and,  fired  with  hope, 

Shot  o’er  the  seething  harbor-bar, 

And  reach’d  the  ship  and  caught  the  rope, 
And  whistled  to  the  morning  star. 

And  while  he  whistled  long  and  loud 
He  heard  a fierce  mermaiden  cry, 

“ O Boy,  tho’  thou  art  young  and  proud, 

1 see  the  place  where  thou  wilt  lie. 

The  sands  and  yeasty  surges  mix 
In  caves  about  the  dreary  bay, 

And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  slicks, 

And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play.” 

“ Fool,”  he  answer’d,  ” death  is  sure 
To  those  that  stay  and  those  that  roam. 
But  I will  nevermore  endure 
To  sit  with  empty  hands  at  home. 

My  mother  clings  about  my  neck, 

My  sisters  crying,  ‘ Stay,  for  shame  ’ ; 

My  father  raves  of  death  and  wreck. 

They  are  all  to  blame,  they  are  all  to 
blame. 

” God  help  me  ! save  I take  my  part 
Of  danger  on  the  roaring  sea, 

A devil  rises  in  my  heart. 

Far  worse  than  any  death  to  me.” 


THE  ISLET. 

“ Whither,  O whither,  love,  shall  we  go, 
For  a score  of  sweet  little  summers  or  so  ? ” 
The  sweet  little  wife  of  the  singer  said 
On  the  day  that  follow’d  the  day  she  was 
wed ; ^ 

Whither,  O whither,  love,  shall  we  go  ? ” 
And  the  singer  shaking  his  curly  head 
T urn’d  as  he  sat,  and  struck  the  keys 
There  at  his  right  with  a sudden  crash. 
Singing,  “ And  shall  it  be  over  the  seas 
With  a crew  that  is  neither  rude  nor  rash. 
But  a bevy  of  Eroses  apple-cheek’d. 

In  a shallop  of  crystal  ivory-beak’d. 

With  a satin  sail  of  a ruby  glow. 

To  a sweet  little  Eden  on  earth  that  I know, 
A mountain  islet  pointed  and  peak’d; 

Waves  on  a diamond  shingle  dash. 

Cataract  brooks  to  the  ocean  run, 
Fairily-delicate  palaces  shine 
Mixt  with  myrtle  and  clad  with  vine, 

And  overstream’d  and  silvery-streak’d 
With  many  a rivulet  high  against  the  Sun 
The  facets  of  the  glorious  mountain  flash 
Above  the  valleys  of  palm  and  pine.” 

“ Thither,  O thither,  love,  let  us  go.” 

“ No,  no,  no  ! 

For  in  all  that  exquisite  isle,  my  dear. 

There  is  but  one  bird  with  a rnusical  throat. 
And  his  compass  is  but  of  a single  note. 

That  it  makes  one  weary  to  hear.” 

“ Mock  me  not  ! mock  me  not  ! love,  let  us 

go-”  


“ No,  love,  no. 

For  the  bud  ever  breaks  into  bloom  on  the 
tree. 

And  a storm  never  wakes  on  the  lonely  sea. 
And  a worm  is  there  in  the  lonely  woodj 
That  pierces  the  liver  and  blackens  the 
blood. 

And  makes  it  a sorrow  to  be.’* 


THE  RINGLET. 

“ Your  ringlets,  your  ringlets. 

That  look  so  golden-gay. 

If  you  will  give  me  one,  but  one. 

To  kiss  it  night  and  day, 

Theri  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 
Will  turn  it  silver-gray  ; 

And  then  shall  I know  it  is  all  true  gold 
To  flame  and  sparkle  and  stream  as  of  old. 
Till  all  the  comets  in  heaven  are  cold. 

And  all  her  stars  decay.” 

“ Then  take  it,  love,  and  put  it  by  ; 

This  cannot  change,  nor  yet  can  1.” 

2. 

‘‘My  ringlet,  my  ringlet. 

That  art  so  golden-gay, 

Now  never  chilling  touch  of  Time 
Can  turn  thee  silver-gray  ; 

And  a lad  may  wink,  and  a girl  may  hint, 
And  a fool  may  say  his  say  ; 

For  my  doubts  and  fears  were  all  amiss. 
And  I swear  henceforth  by  this  and  this. 
That  a doubt  will  only  come  for  a kiss. 

And  a fear  to  be  kiss’d  away.” 

“ Then  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 

If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  I.” 


0 Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

I kiss’d  you  night  and  day. 

And  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

You  still  are  golden -gay, 

But  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

You  should  be  silver-gray: 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I ’m  told, 

1 that  took  you  for  true  gold, 

She  that  gave  you ’s  bought  and  sold. 
Sold,  sold. 

2. 

O Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

She  blush’d  a rosy  red. 

When  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

She  dipt  you  from  her  head. 

And  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

She  gave  you  me,  and  said,  ^ 

“ Come,  kiss  it,  love,  and  put  it  by : 

If  this  can  change,  why  so  can  1.” 

O fie,  you  golden  nothing,  fie 

You  golden  lie. 


O Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

I count  you  much  to  blame. 
For  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

You  put  me  much  to  shame. 


A WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA.  — THE  CAPTAIN. 


So  Ringlet,  O Ringlet, 

I doom  you  to  the  flame. 

For  what  is  this  which  now  I learn, 
Has  given  all  my  faith  a turn  ? 
Burn,  you  glossy  heretic,  burn. 
Burn,  burn. 


A WELCOME  TO  ALEXANDRA. 
March  7,  1863. 

Sea-kings*  daughter  from  over  the  sea, 

Alexandra  ! 

Saxon  and  Norman  and  Dane  are  we. 

But  all  of  us  Danes  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 
Alexandra  ! 

Welcome  her,  thunders  of  fort  and  of  fleet ! 
Welcome  her,  thundering  cheer  of  the  street ! 
Welcome  her,  all  things  youthful  and  sweet. 
Scatter  the  blossom  under  her  feet  ! 

Break,  happy  land,  into  earlier  flowers  ! 
Make  music,  O bird,  in  the  new-budded 
bowers  1 

Blazon  your  mottoes  of  blessing  and  prayer  ! 
Welcome  her,  welcome  her,  all  that  is  ours  ! 
Warble,  O bugle,  and  trumpet,  blare  ! 

P'lags,  flutter  out  upon  turrets  and  towers  ! 
Flames,  on  the  windy  headland  flare  ! 

Utter  your  jubilee,  steeple  and  spire  ! 

Clash,  ye  bells,  in  the  merry  March  air  ! 
Flash,  ye  cities,  in  rivers  of  fire  ! 

Rash  to  the  roof,  sudden  rocket,  and  higher 
Melt  into  the  stars  for  the  land’s  desire  ! 

Roll  and  rejoice,  jubilant  voice. 

Roll  as  a ground-swell  dash’d  on  the  strand, 
Roar  as  the  sea  when  he  welcomes  the  land. 
And  welcome  her,  welcome  the  land’s  desire. 
The  sea-kings’  daughter  as  happy  as  fair, 
Blissful  bride  of  a blissful  heir. 

Bride  of  the  heir  of  the  kings  of  the -sea  — 

O joy  to  the  people,  and  joy  to  the  throne. 
Come  to  us,  love  us,  and  make  us  your  own  : 
For  Saxon  or  Dane  or  Norman  we, 

Teuton  or  Celt,  or  whatever  we  be. 

We  are  each  all  Dane  in  our  welcome  of  thee, 
Alexandra ! 


ODE  SUNG  AT  THE  OPENING  OF 
THE  INTERNATIONAL  EXHI- 
BITION. 

Uplift  a thousand  voices  full  and  sweet. 

In  this  wide  hall  with  earth’s  invention 
stored. 

And  praise  th’  invisible  universal  Lord, 
Who  lets  once  more  in  peace  the  nations 
meet. 

Where  Science,  Art,  and  Labor  have  out- 
pour’d 

Their  myriad  horns  of  plenty  at  our  feet. 

O silent  father  of  our  Kings  to  be 
Mourn’d  in  this  golden  hour  of  jubilee. 

For  this,  for  all,  we  weep  our  thanks  to  thee  ! 

The  world-compelling  plan  was  thine. 

And  lo  ! the  long  laborious  miles. 


Of  Palace  ; lo  ! the  giant  aisles. 

Rich  in  model  and  design  ; 

Harvest-tool  and  husbandry. 

Loom  and  wheel  and  en^in’ry. 

Secrets  of  the  sullen  mine, 

Steel  and  gold,  and  corn  and  wine. 

Fabric  rough,  or  Fairy  fine. 

Sunny  tokens  of  the  Line, 

Polar  marvels,  and  a feast 
Of  wonder  out  of  West  and  East, 

And  shapes  and  hues  of  Art  divine  ! 

All  of  beauty,  all  of  use. 

That  one  fair  planet  can  produce. 

Brought  from  under  every  star. 

Blown  from  over  every  main, 

And  mixt,  as  life  is  mixt  with  pain, 

The  works  of  peace  with  works  of  war. 

O ye,  the  wise  who  think,  the  wise  who  reign. 
From  growing  commerce  loose  her  latest 
chain. 

And  let  the  fair  white-winged  peacemaker  fly 
To  happy  havens  under  all  the  sky. 

And  mix  the  seasons  and  the  golden  hours. 
Till  each  man  finds  his  own  in  all  men’s  good. 
And  all  men  work  in  noble  brotherhood. 
Breaking  their  mailed  fleets  and  armed 
towers. 

And  ruling  by  obeying  Nature’s  powers. 
And  gathering  all  the  fruits  of  peace  and 
crown’d  with  all  her  flowers. 


A DEDICATION. 

Dear,  near  and  true — no  truer  Time  him- 
self 

Can  prove  you,  tho’  he  make  you  evermore 

Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 

Shoots  to  the  fall — take  this,  and  pray  that 
he. 

Who  wrote  it,  honoring  your  sweet  faith  in 
him. 

May  trust  himself ; and  spite  of  praise  and 
scorn. 

As  one  who  feels  the  Immeasurable  world. 

Attain  the  wise  indifference  of  the  wise  ; 

And  after  Autumn  past  — if  left  to  pass 

His  autumn  into  seeming-leafless  days  — 

Draw  toward  the  long  frost  and  longest 
night. 

Wearing  his  wisdom  lightly,  like  the  fruit 

Which  in  our  winter  woodland  looks  a 
flower.  * 


THE  CAPTAIN. 

A LEGEND  OF  THE  N.WY. 

He  that  only  rules  by  terror 
Doeth  grievous  wrong. 

Deep  as  Hell  I count  his  error, 

Let  him  hear  my  song. 

* The  'ruit  of  the  S^^indle-tree  {Euonymus  Euro- 
pee  us). 


240  THREE  SONNETS  TO  A COQUETTE.  ^ ON  A MOURNER. 


Brave  the  Captain  was  : the  seamen 
Made  a gallant  crew, 

Gallant  sons  of  English  freemen, 

Sailors  bold  and  true. 

But  they  hated  his  oppression, 

Stern  he  was  and  rash  ; 

So  for  every  light  transgression 
Doom’d  them  to  the  lash. 

Day  by  day  more  harsh  and  cruel 
Seem’d  the  Captain’s  mood. 

Secret  wrath  like  smother’d  fuel 
Burnt  in  each  man’s  blood. 

Yet  he  hoped  to  purchase  glory. 

Hoped  to  make  the  name 
Of  his  vessel  great  in  story. 

Wheresoe’er  he  came. 

So  they  past  by  capes  and  islands. 

Many  a harbor-mouth, 

Sailing  under  palmy  highlands 
Far  within  the  South. 

On  a day  when  they  were  going 
O’er  the  lone  expanse. 

In  the  North,  her  canvas  flowing. 

Rose  a ship  of  France. 

Then  the  Captain’s  color  heighten’d. 

Joyful  came  his  speech  : 

But  a cloudy  gladness  lighten’d 
In  the  eyes  of  each. 

“ Chase,”  he  said  : the  ship  flew  forward. 
And  the  wind  did  blow  ; 

Stately,  lightly,  went  she  Norvi^ard, 

Till  she  near’d  the  foe. 

Then  they  look’d  at  him  they  hated. 

Had  what  they  desired  : 

Mute  with  folded  arms  they  waited  — 

Not  a gun  was  fired. 

But  they  heard  the  foeman’s  thunder 
Roaring  out  their  doom  ; 

All  the  air  was  torn  in  sunder. 

Crashing  went  the  boom. 

Spars  were  splinter’d,  decks  were  shatter’d. 
Bullets  fell  like  rain  ; 

Over  mast  and  deck  were  scatter’d 
Blood  and  brains  of  men. 

Spars  were  splinter’d  : decks  were  broken  : 

Every  mother’s  son  — 

Down  they  dropt  — no  word  was  spoken  — 
Each  beside  his  gun. 

On  the  decks  as  they  were  lying, 

Were  their  faces  grim. 

In  their  blood,  as  they  lay  dying. 

Did  they  smile  on  him. 

Those,  in  whom  he  had  reliance 
For  his  noble  name. 

With  one  smile  of  still  defiance 
Sold  him  unto  shame. 

Shame  and  wrath  his  heart  confounded. 
Pale  he  turn’d  and  red, 

Till  himself  was  deadly  wounded 
Falling  on  the  dead. 

Dismal  error  ! fearful  slaughter  I 
Years  have  wander’d  by. 

Side  by  side  beneath  the  water 
Crew  and  Captain  lie  ; 

There  the  sunlit  ocean  tosses 
O’er  them  mouldering. 

And  the  lonely  seabird  crosses 
With  one  waft  of  the  wing. 


THREE  SONNETS  TO  A COQUETTE. 

Caress’d  or  chidden  by  the  dainty  hand, 
And  singing  airy  trifles  this  or  that, 

Light  Hope  at  Beauty’s  call  would  perch  and 
stand. 

And  run  thro’  every  change  of  sharp  and 
flat : 

And  Fancy  came  and  at  her  pillow  sat. 
When  Sleep  had  bound  her  in  his  rosy  band. 
And  chased  away  the  still-recurring  gnat, 
And  woke  her  with  a lay  from  fairy  land. 

But  now  the5r  live  with  Beauty  less  and  less, 
For  Hope  is  other  Hope  and  wanders  far. 
Nor  cares  to  lisp  in  love’s  delicious 
creeds ; 

And  Fancy  watches  in  the  wilderness. 

Poor  Fancy  sadder  than  a single  star, 

That  sets  at  twilight  in  a land  of  reeds. 

2. 

The  form,  the  form  alone  is  eloquent ! 

A nobler  yearning  never  broke  her  rest 
Than  but  to  dance  and  sing,  be  gayly  drest, 
And  win  all  eyes  with  all  accomplishment : 
Yet  in  the  waltzing-circle  as  we  went. 

My  fancy  made  me  tor  a moment  blest 
To  find  my  heart  so  near  the  beauteous 
breast 

That  once  had  power  to  rob  it  of  content. 

A moment  came  the  tenderness  of  tears. 

The  phantom  of  a wish  that  once  could 
move, 

A ghost  of  passion  that  no  smiles  re- 
store — 

For  ah  ! the  slight  coquette,  she  cannot 
love, 

And  if  you  kiss’d  her  feet  a thousand  years. 
She  still  would  take  the  praise,  and  care 
no  more. 

3- 

Wan  Sculptor,  weepest  thou  to  take  the  cast 
Of  those  dead  lineaments  that  near  thee 
lie  ? ^ 

0 sorrowest  thou,  pale  Painter,  for  the  past. 
In  painting  some  dead  friend  from  mem- 
ory ? 

Weep  on  : beyond  his  object  Love  can  last  •• 
His  object  lives  : more  cause  to  weep  have 
I : 

My  tears,  no  tears  of  love,  are  flowing  fast, 
No  tears  of  love,  but  tears  that  Love  can 
die. 

1 pledge  her  not  in  any  cheerful  cup. 

Nor  care  to  sit  beside  her  where  she  sits  — 
Ah  pity — hint  it  not  in  human  tones, 
But  breathe  it  into  earth  and  close  it  up 
With  secret  death  forever,  in  the  pits 
Which  some  green  Christmas  crams  with 
weary  bones. 


ON  A MOURNER. 

Nature,  so  far  as  in  her  lies. 
Imitates  God,  and  turns  her  face 
To  every  land  beneath  the  skies. 


SONGS.  — BOA  DICE  A . 


Counts  nothing  that  she  meets  with  base, 
But  lives  and  loves  in  every  place ; 


Fills  out  the  homely  quick-set  screens, 

And  makes  the  purple  lilac  ripe, 

Steps  from  her  airy  hill,  and  greens 
The  swamp,  where  hums  the  dropping 
snipe. 

With  moss  and  braided  marish-pipe  ; 

3- 

And  on  thy  heart  a finger  lays. 

Saying,  “ Beat  quicker,  for  the  time 
Is  pleasant,  and  the  woods  and  ways 
Are  pleasant,  and  the  beech  and  lime 
Put  forth  and  feel  a gladder  clime.” 

4* 

And  murmurs  of  a deeper  voice. 

Going  before  to  some  far  shrine. 

Teach  that  sick  heart  the  stronger  choice. 
Till  all  thy  life  one  way  incline 
With  one  wide  will  that  closes  thine. 

5- 

And  when  the  zoning  eve  has  died 
Where  yon  dark  valleys  wind  forlorn. 
Come  Hope  and  Memory,  spouse  and  bride, 
From  out  the  borders  of  the  morn. 

With  that  fair  child  betwixt  them  born. 

6. 

And  when  no  mortal  motion  jars 

The  blackness  round  the  tombing  sod, 
Thro’  silence  and  the  trembling  stars 


241 

Comes  Faith  from  tracts  no  feet  have  trod, 
And  Virtue,  like  a household  god, 

7- 

Promising  empire  ; such  as  those 
That  once  at  dead  of  night  did  greet 
Troy’s  wandering  prince,  so  that  he  rose 
With  sacrifice,  while  all  the  fleet 
Had  rest  by  stony  hills  of  Crete. 


SONG. 

Lady,  let  the  rolling  drums 
Beat  to  battle  where  thy  warrior  stands : 
Now  thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes. 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands. 

Lady,  let  the  trumpets  blow, 

Clasp  thy  little  babes  about  thy  knee  : 
Now  their  warrior  father  meets  the  foe. 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee. 


SONG. 

Home  they  brought  him  slain  with  spears. 

They  brought  him  home  at  even-fall : 
All  alone  she  sits  and  hears 
Echoes  in  his  empty  hall. 

Sounding  on  the  morrow. 

The  Sun  peep’d  in  from  open  field. 

The  boy  began  to  leap  and  prance. 

Rode  upon  his  father’s  lance. 

Beat  upon  his  father’s  shield  — 

“ O hush,  my  joy,  my  sorrow.** 


EXPERIMENTS. 


BOADICEA. 

While  about  the  shore  of  Mona  those  Neronian  legionaries 
Burnt  and  broke  the  grove  and  altar  of  the  Druid  and  Druidess, 

Far  in  the  East  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted. 

Mad  and  maddening  all  that  heard  her  in  her  fierce  volubility. 

Girt  by  half  the  tribes  of  Britain,  near  the  colony  Camulodune, 

Yell’d  and  shriek’d  between  her  daughters  o’er  a wild  confederacy. 

“They  that  scorn  the  tribes  and  call  us  Britain’s  barbarous  populaces. 
Did  they  hear  me,  would  they  listen,  did  they  pity  me  supplicating  } 
Shall  I heed  them  in  their  anguish?  shall  I brook  to  be  supplicated? 
Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

Must  their  ever-ravening  eagle’s  beak  and  talon  annihilate  us? 

Tear  the  noble  heart  of  Britain,  leave  it  gorilv  quivering? 

Bark  an  answer,  Britain’s  raven  ! bark  and  blacken  innumerable. 
Blacken  round  the  Roman  carrion,  make  the  carcass  a skeleton. 

Kite  and  kestrel,  wolf  and  wolf  kin,  from  the  wilderness,  wallow  in  it. 
Till  the  face  of  Bel  be  brighten’d,*  Taranis  be  propitiated. 

Lo  their  colony  half-defended  ! lo  their  colony,  Cdmulodune  ! 

There  the  horde  of  Roman  robbers  mock  at  a barbarous  adversary. 


242 


BOA  DICE  A, 

There  the  hive  of  Roman  liars  worship  a gluttonous  emperor-idiot 
Such  is  Rome,  and  this  her  deity  : hear  it.  Spirit  of  Cassivelaun  ! 

“ Hear  it,  Gods  ! the  Gods  have  heard  it,  O Icenian,  O Coritanian  1 
Doubt  not  ye  the  Gods  have  answer’d,  Catieuchlanian,  Trinobant 
These  have  told  us  all  their  anger  in  miraculous  utterances. 

Thunder,  a flying  fire  in  heaven,  a murmur  heard  aerially. 

Phantom  sound  of  blows  descending,  moan  of  an  enemy  massacred, 

Phantom  wail  of  women  and  children,  multitudinous  agonies. 

Bloodily  flow’d  the  Tamesa  rolling  phantom  bodies  of  horses  and  men  ; 

Then  a phantom  colony  smoulder’d  on  the  refluent  estuary  ; 

Lastly  yonder  yester-even,  suddenly  giddily  tottering  — 

There  was  one  who  watch’d  and  told  me  — down  their  statue  of  Victory  felL 
Lo  their  precious  Roman  bantling,  lo  the  colony  Camulodiine, 

Shall  we  teach  it  a Roman  lesson  ? shall  we  care  to  be  pitiful? 

Shall  we  deal  with  it  as  an  infant?  shall  we  dandle  it  amorously? 

“ ,^ear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

Whife  I roved  about  the  forest,  long  and  bitterly  meditating. 

There  I heard  them  in  tl>e  darkness,  at  the  mystical  ceremony, 

Loosely  robed  in  flying  raiment,  sang  the  terrible  prophetesses. 

‘ Fear  not,  isle  of  blowing  woodland,  isle  of  silvery  parapets  I 
Tho’  the  Roman  eagle  shadow  thee,  tho’  the  gathering  enemy  narrow  thee, 
Thou  shalt  wax  and  he  shall  dwindle,  thou  shalt  be  the  mighty  one  yet ! 
Thine  the  liberty,  thine  the  glory,  thine  the  deeds  to  be  celebrated. 

Thine  the  myriad-rolling  ocean,  light  and  shadow  illimitable, 

Thine  the  lands  of  lasting  summer,  many-blossoming  Paradises, 

Thine  the  North  and  thine  the  South  and  thine  the  battle-thunder  of  God.' 
So  they  chanted  : how  shall  Britain  light  upon  auguries  happier? 

So  they  chanted  in  the  darkness,  and  there  cometh  a victory  now. 

“ Hear  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  hear  Coritanian,  Trinobant ! 

Me  the  wife  of  rich  Prasutagus,  me  the  lover  of  liberty, 

Me  they  seized  and  me  they  tortured,  me  they  lash’d  and  humiliated, 

Me  the  sport  of  ribald  Veterans,  mine  of  ruffian  violators  ! 

See  they  sit,  they  hide  their  faces,  miserable  in  ignominy  ! 

Wherefore  in  me  burns  an  anger,  not  by  blood  to  be  satiated. 

Lo  the  palaces  and  the  temple,  lo  the  colony  Camulodiine  ! 

There  they  ruled,  and  thence  they  wasted  all  the  flourishing  territory, 

Thither  at  their  will  they  haled  the  yellow-ringleted  Britoness  — 

Bloodily,  bloodily  fall  the  battle-axe,  unexhausted,  inexorable. 

Shout  Icenian,  Catieuchlanian,  shout  Coritanian,  Trinobant, 

Till  the  victim  hear  within  and  yearn  to  hurry  precipitously 

Like  the  leaf  in  a roaring  whirlwind,  like  the  smoke  in  a hurricane  whirl’d. 

Lo  the  colony,  there  they  rioted  in  the  city  of  Ciinobelfne? 

There  they  drank  in  cups  of  emerald,  there  at  tables  of  ebony  lay. 

Rolling  on  their  purple  couches  in  their  tender  effeminacy. 

There  they  dwelt  and  there  they  rioted  ; there  — there  — they  dwell  no  more. 
Burst  the  gates,  and  burn  the  palaces,  break  the  works  of  the  statuary. 

Take  the  hoary  Roman  head  and  shatter  it,  hold  it  abominable. 

Cut  the  Roman  boy  to  pieces  in  his  lust  and  voluptuousness, 

Lash  the  maiden  into  swooning,  me  they  lash’d  and  humiliated. 

Chop  the  breasts  from  off  the  mother,  dash  the  brains  of  the  little  one  out; 

Up  my  Britons,  on  my  chariot,  on  my  chargers,  trample  them  under  us.” 

So  the  Queen  Boadicea,  standing  loftily  charioted. 

Brandishing  in  her  hand  a dart  and  rolling  glances  lioness-like. 

Yelled  and  shrieked  between  her  daughters  in  her  fierce  volubility. 

Till  her  people  all  around  the  royal  chariot  agitated. 

Madly  dash’d  the  darts  together,  writhing  barbarous  lineaments. 

Made  the  noise  of  frosty  woodlands,  when  they  shiver  in  January, 

Roar’d  as  when  the  rolling  breakers  boom  and  blanch  on  the  precipices. 
Yell’d  as  when  the  winds  of  winter  tear  an  oak  on  a promontory. 

So  the  silent  colony  hearing  her  tumultuous  adversaries 

Clash  the  darts  and  on  the  buckler  beat  with  rapid  unanimous  hand. 

Thought  on  all  her  evil  tyrannies,  all  her  pitiless  avarice. 

Till  she  felt  the  heart  within  her  fall  and  flutter  tremulously. 

Then  her  pulses  at  the  clamoring  of  her  enemy  feinted  away. 


IN  QUANTITY.  — SPECIMEN  OF  A TRANS  LA  TION 

Out  of  evil  evil  flourishes,  out  of  tyranny  tyranny' buds. 

Ran  the  land  with  Roman  slaughter,  multitudinous  agonies. 

Perish’d  many  a maid  and  matron,  many  a valorous  legionary. 

Fell  the  colony,  city  and  citadel,  London,  Verulam,  Camulodune. 


IN  QUANTITY. 

MILTON. 

A Laics. 

'O  mighty-mouth’d  inventor  of  harmonies, 

O skill’d  to  sing  of  Time  or  Eternity, 
God-gifted  organ-voice  of  England, 

Milton,  a name  to  resound  for  ages; 
Whose  Titan  angels,  Gabriel,  Abdiel, 

Starr’d  from  Jehovah’s  gorgeous  armories. 
Tower,  as  the  deep-domed  empyrean 

Rings  to  the  roar  of  an  angel  onset  — 
Me  rather  all  that  bowery  loneliness. 

The  brooks  of  Eden  mazily  murmuring. 

And  bloom  profuse  and  cedar  arches 

Charm,  as  a wanderer  out  in  ocean. 
Where  some  refulgent  sunset  of  India 
Streams  o’er  a rich  ambrosial  ocean  isle. 

And  crimson-hued  the  stately  palmwooda 
Whisper  in  odorous  heights  of  even. 


Hendecasyllabics. 

O YOU  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 
Irresponsible,  indolent  reviewers, 

Look,  I come  to  the  test,  a tiny  poem 
All  composed  in  a metre  of  Catullus, 

All  in  quantity,  careful  of  my  motion. 

Like  the  skater  on  ice  that  hardly  bears  him, 

Lest  I fall  unawares  before  the  people. 

Waking  laughter  in  indolent  reviewers. 

Should  I flounder  awhile  without  a tumble 
Thro’  this  metrification  of  Catullus, 

They  should  speak  to  me  not  without  a welcome, 
All  that  chorus  of  indolent  reviewers. 

Hard,  hard,  hard  is  it,  only  not  to  tumble. 

So  fantastical  is  the  dainty  metre. 

Wherefore  slight  me  not  wholly,  nor  believe  me 
Too  presumptuous,  indolent  reviewers. 

O blatant  Magazines,  regard  me  rather  — 

Since  I blush  to  belaud  myself  a moment  — 

As  some  rare  little  rose,  a piece  of  inmost 
Horticultural  art,  or  half  coquette-like 
Maiden,  not  to  be  greeted  unbenignly. 


SPECIMEN  OF  A TRANSLATION  OF  THE  ILIAD 
IN  BLANK  VERSE. 

So  Hector  said,  and  sea-like  roar’d  his  host ; 

Then  loosed  their  sweating  horses  from  the  yoke 
And  each  beside  his  chariot  bound  his  own  ; 

And  oxen  from  the  city,  and  goodly  sheep 
In  haste  they  drove,  and  honey-hearied  wine 
And  bread  from  out  the  houses  brought,  and  heap’d 
Their  firewood,  and  the  winds  from  off  the  plain 


24^ 


244 


SPECIMEN  OF  A TRANS  LA  TJON, 

Roll’d  the  rich  vapor  far  into  the  heaven. 

And  these  all  night  upon  the  * bridge  of  war 
Sat  glorying  ; many  a fire  before  them  blazed : 

As  when^n  heaven  the  stars  about  the  moon 
Look  beautiful,  when  all  the  winds  are  laid, 

And  every  height  comes  out,  and  jutting  peak 
And  valley,  and  the  immeasurable  heavens 
Break  open  to  their  highest,  and  all  the  stars 
Shine,  and  the  Shepherd  gladdens  in  his  heart  : 

So  many  a fire  between  the  ships  and  stream 
Of  Xanthus  blazed  before  the  towers  of  Troy, 

A thousand  on  the  plain  ; and  close  by  each 
Sat  fifty  in  the  blaze  of  burning  fire  ; 

And  champing  golden  grain,  the  horses  stood 
Hard  by  their  chariots,  waiting  for  the  dawn.t 

Iliad  N\\\.  542-561. 

* Or,  ridge, 
t Or  more  literally,  — 

And  eating  hoary  grain  and  pulse  the  steeds 
Stood  by  their  cars,  waiting  the  throned  mora. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 

Leodogran,  the  King  of  Cameliard, 

Had  one  fair  daughter,  and  none  other  child  ; 
And  she  was  fairest  of  all  flesh  on  earth, 
Guinevere,  and  in  her  his  one  delight. 

For  many  a petty  king  ere  Arthur  came 
Ruled  in  this  isle,  and  ever  waging  war 
Each  upon  other,  wasted  all  the  land  ; 

And  still  from  time  to  time  the  heathen  host 
Swarm’d  overseas,  and  harried  what  was  left. 
And  so  there  grew  great  tracts  of  wilderness. 
Wherein  the  beast  was  ever  more  and  more. 
But  man  was  less  and  less,  till  Arthur  came. 
P'or  first  Aurelius  lived  and  fought  and  died, 
And  after  him  King  Uther  fought  and  died. 
But  either  fail’d  to  make  the  kingdom  one. 
And  after  these  King  Arthur  for  a space. 
And  thro’  the  puissance  of  his  Table  Round, 
Drew  all  their  petty  princedoms  under  him, 
Their  king  and  head,  and  made  a realm,  and 
reign’d. 

And  thus  the  land  of  Cameliard  was  waste, 
Thick  with  wet  woods,  and  many  a beast 
therein. 

And  none  or  few  to  scare  or  chase  the  beast ; 
So  that  wild  dog,  and  wolfand  boar  and  bear 
Came  night  and  day,  and  rooted  in  the  fields. 
And  wallow’d  in  the  gardens  of  the  king. 
And  ever  and  anon  the  wolf  would  steal 
The  children  and  devour,  but  now  and  then. 
Her  own  brood  lost  or  dead,  lent  her  fierce 
teat 

To  human  sucklings;  and  the  children, 
housed 

In  her  foul  den,  there  at  their  meat  would 
growl. 

And  mock  their  foster-mother  on  four  feet. 
Till,  straighten’d,  they  grew  up  to  wolf-like 
men. 

Worse  than  the  wolves.  And  King  Leodo- 
gran 

Groan’d  for  the  Roman  legions  here  again. 
And  Caesar’s  eagle  : then  his  brother  king, 
Rience,  assail’d  him  : last  a heathen  horde. 
Reddening  the  sun  with  smoke  and  earth 
with  blood, 


And  on  the  spike  that  split  the  mother's 
heart 

Spitting  the  child,  brake  on  him,  till,  amazed. 
He  knew  not  whither  he  should  turn  for  aid. 

But  — for  he  heard  of  Arthur  newly 
crown’d, 

Tho’  not  without  an  uproar  made  by  those 
Who  cried,  “ He  is  not  Uther’s  son  ” — the 
king 

Sent  to  him,  saying,  “Arise, and  help  us  thou! 
For  here  between  the  man  and  beast  we  die.” 

And  Arthur  yet  had  done  no  deed  of  arms, 
But  heard  the  call,  and  came  : and  Guinevere 
Stood  by  the  castle  walls  to  watch  him  pass  ; 
But  since  he  neither  wore  on  helm  or  shield 
The  golden  symbol  of  his  kinglihood, 

But  rode  a simple  knight  among  his  knights, 
And  many  of  these  in  richer  arms  than  he. 
She  saw  him  not,  or  mark’d  not,  if  she  saw. 
One  among  many,  tho’  his  face  was  bare. 
But  Arthur,  looking  downward  as  he  past, 
Felt  the  light  of  her  eyes  into  his  life 
Smite  on  the  suddgn,  yet  rode  on,  and  pitch’d 
His  tents  beside  the  forest.  And  he  drave 
The  heathen,  and  he  slew  the  beast,  and  fell’d 
The  forest,  and  let  in  the  sun,  and  made 
Broad  pathways  for  the  hunterand  the  knight ; 
And  so  return’d. 

For  while  he  linger’d  there, 
A doubt  that  ever  smoulder’d  in  the  hearts 
Of  those  great  Lords  and  Barons  of  his  realm 
Flash’d  forth  and  into  war  : for  most  of  these 
Made  head  against  him,  crying,  “ Who  is  he 
That  he  should  rule  us?  who  hath  proven 
him 

King  Uther’s  son?  for  lo  ! we  look  at  him, 
And  find  nor  face  nor  bearing,  limbs  nor 
voice. 

Are  like  to  those  of  Uther  whom  we  knew. 
This  is  the  son  of  Gorlois,  not  the  king ; 
This  is  the  son  of  Anton,  not  the  king.” 

And  Arthur,  passing  thence  to  battle,  felt 
Travail,  and  throes  and  agonies  of  the  life. 
Desiring  to  be  join’d  with  Guinevere  ; 

And  thinking  as  he  rode,  “ Her  father  said 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


246 

That  there  between  the  man  and  beast  they 
die. 

Shall  I not  lift  her  from  this  land  of  beasts 
Up  to  my  throne,  and  side  by  side  with  me? 
What  happiness  to  reign  a lonely  king, 

Vext  — O ye  stars  that  shudder  over  me, 

0 earth  that  soundest  hollow  under  me, 
Vext  with  waste  dreams?  for  saving  I be 

join’d 

To  her  that  is  the  fairest  under  heaven, 

1 seem  as  nothing  in  the  mighty  world, 

And  cannot  will  ray  will,  nor  work  my  work 
Wholly,  nor  make  myself  in  mine  own  realm 
Victor  and  lord.  But  were  I join’d  with  her, 
Then  might  we  live  together  as  one  life, 

And  reigning  with  one  will  in  everything 
Have  power  on  this  dark  land  to  lighten  it. 
And  power  on  this  dead  world  to  make  it 

live.” 

And  Arthur  from  the  field  of  battle  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere, 

His  new-made  knights,  to  King  Leodogran, 
Saying,  “ If  I in  aught  have  served  thee  well, 
Give  me  thy  daughter  Guinevere  to  wife.” 

Whom  when  he  heard,  Leodogran  in  heart 
Debating  — “ How  should  I that  am  a king. 
However  much  he  holp  me  at  my  need. 

Give  my  one  daughter  saving  to  a king. 

And  a king’s  son” — lifted  his  voice,  and  call’d 
A hoary  man,  his  chamberlain,  to  whom 
He  trusted  all  things,  and  of  him  required 
His  counsel : “ Knowest  thou  aught  of  Ar- 
thur’s birth  ? ” 

Then  spake  the  hoary  thamberlain  and 
said, 

‘‘  Sir  king,  there  be  but  two  old  men  that 
know : 

And  each  is  twice  as  old  as  I ; and  one 
Is  Merlin,  the  wise  man  that  ever  served 
King  Uther  thro’  his  magic  art ; and  one 
Is  Merlin’s  master  (so  they  call  him)  Bleys, 
Who  taught  him  magic ; but  the  scholar  ran 
Before  the  master,  and  so  far,  that  Bleys 
Laid  magic  by,  and  sat  him  down,  and  wrote 
All  things  and  whatsoever  Merlin  did 
In  one  great  annal-book,  where  after-years 
Will  learn  the  secret  of  our  Arthur’s  birth.” 

To  whom  the  King  Leodogran  replied, 

“ O friend,  had  I been  holpen  half  as  well 
By  this  King  Arthur  as  by  thee  to-day. 

Then  beast  and  man  had  had  their  share  of 
me : 

But  summon  here  before  us  yet  once  more 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias,  and  Bedivere.” 

Then,  when  they  came  before  him,  the 
king  said, 

“ I have  seen  the  cuckoo  chased  by  lesser 
fowl. 

And  reason  in  the  chase  : but  wherefore  now 
Do  these  your  lords  stir  up  the  heat  of  war, 
Some  calling  Arthur  born  of  Gorlois, 

Others  of  Anton  ? Tell  me,  ye  yourselves. 
Hold  ye  this  Arthur  for  King  U ther’s  son  ? ” 


And  Ulfius  and  Brastias  answer’d,  “ Ay.’^ 
Then  Bedivere,  the  first  of  all  his  knights 
Knighted  by  Arthur  at  his  crowning, 
spake  — 

For  bold  in  heart  and  act  and  word  was  he. 
Whenever  slander  breathed  against  the 
king  — 

“ Sir,  there  be  many  rumors  on  this  head  : 
For  there  be  those  who  hate  him  in  their 
hearts. 

Call  him  baseborn,  and  since  his  ways  are 
sweet. 

And  theirs  are  bestial,  hold  him  less  than 
man : 

And  there  be  those  who  deem  him  more  than 
man. 

And  dream  he  dropt  from  heaven : but  my 
belief 

In  all  this  matter  — so  ye  care  to  learn  — 
Sir,  for  ye  know  that  in  King  Uther’s  time 
The  prince  and  warrior  Gorlois,  he  that  held 
Tintagel  castle  by  the  Cornish  sea. 

Was  wedded  with  a winsome  wife,  Ygerne  : 
And  daughters  had  she  borne  him,  — one 
whereof 

Lot’s  w'ife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Bellicent, 
Hath  ever  like  a loyal  sister  cleaved 
To  Arthur,  — but  a son  she  had  not  borne. 
And  Uther  cast  upon  her  eyes  of  love : 

But  she,  a stainless  wife  to  Gorlois, 

So  loathed  the  bright  dishonor  of  his  love. 
That  Gorlois  and  King  Uther  w'ent  to  war  ; 
And  overthrown  was  Gorlois  and  slain. 
Then  Uther  in  his  wrath  and  heat  besieged 
Ygerne  within  Tintagel,  where  her  men. 
Seeing  the  mighty  swarm  about  their  walls. 
Left  her  and  fled,  and  Uther  enter’d  in. 

And  there  was  none  to  call  to  but  himself. 
So,  compass’d  by  the  power  of  the  king, 
Enforced  she  was  to  wed  him  in  her  tears. 
And  with  a shameful  swiftness : afterward. 
Not  many  moons,  King  Uther  died  him- 
self 

Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir  to  rule 
After  him,  lest  the  realm  should  goto  wrack. 
And  that  same  night,  the  night  of  the  new 
year. 

By  reason  of  the  bitterness  and  grief 
That  vext  his  mother,  all  before  his  time 
Was  Arthur  born,  and  all  as  soon  as  born 
Deliver’d  at  a secret  postern-gate 
To  Merlin,  to  be  holden  far  apart 
Until  his  hour  should  come  ; because  the 
lords 

Of  that  fierce  day  were  as  the  lords  of  this, 
Wild  beasts,  and  surely  would  have  torn  the 
child 

Piecemeal  among  them,  had  they  known  ; for 
each 

But  sought  to  rule  for  his  owti  self  and  hand. 
And  many  hated  Uther  for  the  sake 
Of  Gorlois.  Wherefore  Merlin  took  the  child. 
And  gave  him  to  Sir  Anton,  an  old  knight 
And  ancient  friend  of  Uther  ; and  his  wife 
Nursed  the  young  prince,  and  rear’d  him 
with  her  own  ; 

And  no  man  knew.  And  ever  since  the  lords 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR. 


*47 


Have  foughten  like  wild  beasts  among  them- 
selves, 

So  that  the  realm  has  gone  to  wrack  : but 


This  year,  when  Merlin  (for  his  hour  had 
come) 

Brought  Arthur  forth,  and  set  him  in  the  hall, 

Proclaiming,  ‘ Here  is  Uther’s  heir,  your 

king,’ 

A hundred  voices  cried,  ‘ Away  with  him  ! 

No  king  of  ours  ! .a  son  of  Gorloi's  he. 

Or  else  the  child  of  Anton,  and  no  king. 

Or  else  baseborn.*  Yet  Merlin  thro’  his 
craft. 

And  while  the  people  clamor’d  for  a king. 

Had  Arthur  crown’d ; but  after,  the  great 
lords 

Banded,  and  so  brake  out  in  open  war.” 


Then  while  the  king  debated  with  himself 
If  Arthur  were  the  child  of  shamefulness. 
Or  born  the  son  of  Gorloi's,  after  death, 

Or  Uther’s  son,  and  bom  before  his  time, 

Or  whether  there  were  truth  in  anything 
Said  by  these  three,  there  came  to  Cameliard, 
With  Gawain  and  young  Modred,  her  two 
sons. 

Lot’s  wife,  the  Queen  of  Orkney,  Beliicent ; 
Whom  as  he  could,  not  as  he  would,  the  king 
Made  feast  for,  saying,  as  they  sat  at  meat, 

“ A doubtful  throne  is  ice  on  summer  seas  — 
Ye  come  from  Arthur’s  court : think  ye  this 
king  — 

So  few  his  knights,  however  brave  they  be  — 
Hath  body  enow  to  beat  his  foemen  down  ? ” 


“ O king,”  she  cried,  ” and  I will  tell 
thee ; few. 

Few,  but  all  brave,  all  of  one  mind  with  him  ; 
For  I was  near  him  when  the  savage  yells 
Of  Uther’s  peerage  died,  and  Arthur  sat 
Crown’d  on  the  da'is,  and  his  warriors  cried, 

‘ Be  thou  the  king,  and  we  will  work  thy  will 
Who  love  thee.’  Then  the  king  in  low,  deep 
tones. 

And  simple  words  of  great  authority. 

Bound  them  by  so  strait  vows  to  his  own  self, 
That  when  they  rose,  knighted  from  kneel- 
ing, some 

Were  pale  as  at  the  passing  of  a ghost. 

Some  flush’d,  and  others  dazed,  as  one  who 
vvakes 

Half-blinded  at  the  coming  of  a light. 


“ But  when  he  spake  and  cheer’d  his  Table 
Round 

With  large  divine  and  comfortable  words 
Beyond  my  tongue  to  tell  thee — I beheld 
From  eye  to  eye  thro’  all  their  Order  flash 
A momentary  likeness  of  the  king  : 

And  ere  it  left  their  faces,  thro’  the  cross 
And  those  around  it  and  the  Crucified, 
Down  from  the  casement  over  Arthur,  smote 
Flame-color,  vert  and  azure,  in  three  ra^'s. 
One  falling  upon  each  of  three  fair  queens. 
Who  stood  in  silence  near  his  throne,  the 
friends 


Of  Arthur,  gazing  on  him,  tall,  with  bright 
Sweet  faces,  who  will  help  him  at  his  need. 

“And  there  I saw  mage  Merlin,  whose 
vast  wit 

And  hundred  winters  are  but  as  the  hands 
Of  loyal  vassals  toiling  for  their  liege. 

“And  near  him  stood  the  Lady  of  the 
Lake, 

Who  knows  a subtler  magic  than  his  own  — 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
She  gave  the  king  his  huge  cross-hilled 
sword. 

Whereby  to  drive  the  heathen  out : a mist 
Of  incense  curl’d  about  her,  and  her  face 
Wellnigh  was  hidden  in  the  minster  gloo(n  ; 
But  there  was  heard  among  the  holy  hymns 
A voice  as  of  the  waters,  for  site  dwells 
Down  in  a deep,  calm,  whatsoever  storms 
May  shake  the  world,  and  when  the  surface 
rolls. 

Hath  power  to  walk  the  waters  like  our  Lord. 

“ There  likewise  I beheld  Excalibur 
Before  him  at  his  crowning  borne,  the  sword 
That  rose  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
And  Arthur  row’d  across- and  took  it  — rich 
With  jewels,  elfin  Urim,  on  the  hilt. 
Bewildering  heart  and  eye  — the  blade  so 
bright 

That  men  are  blinded  by  it  — on  one  side. 
Graven  in  the  oldest  tongue  of  all  this  world, 
‘ Take  me,’  but  turn  the  blade  and  you  shall 
see, 

And  written  in  the  speech  ye  speak  yourself, 
‘ Cast  me  away ! ’ and  sad  was  Arthur’s  face 
Taking  it,  but  old  Merlin  counsell’d  him, 
‘Take  thou  and  strike!  the  time  to  cast 
away 

Is  yet  far-off.’  So  this  great  brand  the  king 
Took,  and  by  this  will  beat  his  foemen  down.” 

Thereat  Leodogran  rejoiced,  but  thought 
To  sift  his  doublings  to  the  last,  and  ask’d, 
Fixing  full  eyes  of  question  on  her  face, 

“ The  swallow  and  the  swift  are  near  akin. 
But  thou  art  closer  to  this  noble  prince. 
Being  his  own  dear  sister  ” ; and  she  said, 

“ Daughter  of  Gorlo'is  and  Ygerne  am  I ” ; 
“And  therefore  Arthur’s  sister,”  asked  the 
King. 

She  answer’d,  “ These  be  secret  things,” 
and  sign’d 

To  those  two  sons  to  pass  and  let  them  be. 
And  Gawain  went,  and  breaking  into  song 
Sprang  out,  and  follow’d  by  his  flying  hair 
Ran  like  a colt,  and  leapt  at  all  he  saw ; 

But  Modred  laid  his  ear  beside  the  doors. 
And  there  half  heard  ; the  same  that  after- 
ward 

Struck  for  the  throne,  and  striking  found  his 
doom. 

And  then  the  Queen  made  answer,**  What 
know  I ? 

For  dark  my  mother  was  in  eyes  and  hair, 
And  dark  in  hair  and  eyes  am  I ; and  dark 


248 


THE  COMING  OF  ARTHUR, 


Was  GorloTs,  yea  and  dark  was  Uther  too, 
Wellnigh  to  blackness;  but  this  king  is  fair 
Beyond  the  race  of  Britons  and  of  men. 
Moreover  always  in  my  mind  I hear 
A cry  from  out  the  dawning  of  my  life, 

A mother  weeping,  and  I hear  her  say, 

‘ O that  ye  had  some  brother,  pretty  one. 

To  guard  thee  on  the  rough  ways  of  the 
world.’  ” 

“Ay,”  said  the  King,  “ and  hear  ye  such 
a cry? 

But  when  did  Arthur  chance  upon  thee  first?” 

“ O king  ! ” she  cried,  “ and  I will  tell  thee 
true : 

He  found  me  first  when  yet  a little  maid  : 
Beaten  I had  been  for  a little  fault 
Whereof  I was  not  guilty  ; and  out  I ran 
And  flung  myself  down  on  a bank  of  heath, 
And  hated  this  fair  world  and  all  therein. 
And  wept,  and  wish’d  that  I were  dead  ; and 
he  — 

I know  not  whether  of  himself  he  came, 

Or  brought  by  Merlin,  who,  they  say,  can 
walk 

Unseen  at  pleasure  — he  was  at  my  side. 
And  spake  sweet  words,  and  comforted  my 
heart. 

And  dried  my  tears,  being  a child  with  me. 
And  many  a time  he  came,  and  evermore 
As  I grew  greater  grew  with  me ; and  sad 
At  limes  he  seem’d,  and  sad  with  him  was  I, 
Stern  too  at  times,  and  then  I loved  him  not, 
But  sweet  again,  and  then  I loved  him  well. 
And  now  of  late  I see  him  less  and  less. 

But  those  first  days  had  golden  hours  for 
me. 

For  then  I surely  thought  he  would  be  king. 

“ But  let  me  tell  thee  now  another  tale  : 
For  Bleys,  our  Merlin’s  master,  as  they  say. 
Died  but  of  late,  and  sent  his  cry  to  me. 

To  hear  him  speak  before  he  left  his  life. 
Shrunk  like  a fairy  changeling  lay  the  mage. 
And  when  I enter’d  told  me  that  himself 
And  Merlin  ever  served  about  the  king, 
Uther,  before  he  died,  and  on  the  night 
When  Uther  in  Tintagel  past  away 
Moaning  and  wailing  for  an  heir,  the  two 
Left  the  still  king,  and  passing  forth  to 
breathe. 

Then  from  the  castle  gateway  by  the  chasm 
Descending  thro’  the  dismal  night  — a night 
In  which  the  bounds  of  heaven  and  earth 
were  lost  — 

Beheld,  so  high  upon  the  dreary  deeps 
It  seem’d  in  heaven,  a ship,  the  shape 
thereof 

A dragon  wing’d,  and  all  from  stem  to  stern 
Bright  with  a shining  people  on  the  decks. 
And  gone  as  soon  as  seen  : and  then  the  two 
Dropt  to  the  cove,  and  watch’d  the  great  sea 
fall. 

Wave  after  wave,  each  mightier  than  the  last. 
Till  last,  a ninth  one,  gathering  half  the  deep 
And  full  of  voices,  slowly  rose  and  plunged 
Roaring,  and  all  the  wave  was  in  a flame  ; 


And  down  the  wave  and  in  the  flame  w'as 
borne  • 

A naked  babe,  and  rode  to  Merlin’s  feet. 
Who  stoopt  and  caught  the  babe,  and  cried, 
• ‘ The  King  ! 

Here  is  an  heir  for  Uther  ! * and  the  fringe 
Of  that  great  breaker,  sweeping  up  the  strand, 
Lash’d  at  the  wizard  as  he  spake  the  word. 
And  all  at  once  all  round  him  rose  in  fire. 

So  that  the  child  and  he  w ere  clothed  in  fire. 
And  presently  thereafter  follow’d  calm, 

Free  sky  and  stars : ‘ And  this  same  child,’  he 
said, 

‘ Is  he  who  reigns  ; nor  could  I part  in  peace 
Till  this  were  told.  ’ And  saying  this  the  seer 
Went  thro’  the  strait  and  dreadful  pass  of 
death. 

Not  ever  to  be  question’d  any  more 
Save  on  the  further  side  ; but  when  I met 
Merlin,  and  ask’d  him  if  these  things  were 
truth  — 

The  shining  dragon  and  the  naked  child 
Descending  in  the  glory  of  the  seas  — 

He  laugh’d  as  is  his  wont,  and  answer’d  me 
In  riddling  triplets  of  old  time,  and  said  : 

“ ‘ Rain,  rain,  and  sun  ! a rainbow'  in  the 
sky  ! 

A young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by ; 

An  old  man’s  wit  may  w'ander  ere  he  die. 
Rain,  rain,  and  sun  I a rainbow  on  the 
lea  ! 

And  truth  is  this  to  me,  and  that  to  thee  ; 
And  truth  or  clothed  or  naked  let  it  be. 

Rain,  sun,  and  rain  ! and  the  free  blossom 
blow's  : 

Sun,  rain,  and  sun  ! and  where  is  he  who 
knows? 

From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he 
goes.’ 

“ So  Merlin  riddling  anger’d  me  ; but  thou 
Fear  not  to  give  this  king  thine  only  child, 
Guinevere  : so  great  bards  of  him  will  sing 
Hereafter  ; and  dark  sayings  from  of  old 
Ranging  and  ringing  thro’  the  minds  of  men, 
And  echo’d  by  old  folk  beside  their  fires 
For  comfort  after  their  wage-work  is  done. 
Speak  of  the  king  ; and  Merlin  in  our  time 
Hath  spoken  also,  not  in  jest,  and  sw'orn 
7'ho’ men  may  wound  him  that  he  w'ill  not  die, 
But  pass,  again  to  come  ; and  then  or  now 
Utterly  smite  the  heathen  underfoot. 

Till  these  and  all  men  hail  him  for  their  king.” 

She  spake  and  King  Leodogran  rejoiced, 
Rut  musing  “ Shall  I answer  yea  or  nay?” 
Doubted  and  drowsed,  nodded  and  slept,  and 
saw, 

Dreaming,  a slope  of  land  that  ever  grew, 
Field  after  field,  up  to  a height,  the  peak 
Haze-hidden,  and  thereon  a phantom  king, 
Now  looming,  and  now  lost ; and  on  the  slope 
The  sword  rose,  the  hind  fell,  the  herd  was 
driven. 

Fire  glimpsed  ; and  all  the  land  from  roof  and 
rick. 

In  drifts  of  smoke  before  a rolling  wind,  ^ 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL.  ^49 


Stream’d  to  the  peak,  and  mingled  with  the 
haze 

And  made  it  thicker;  while  the  phantom 
king 

Sent  out  at  times  a voice  ; and  here  or  there 
Stood  one  who  pointed  toward  the  voice,  the 
rest 

Slew  on  and  burnt,  crying,  “ No  king  of  ours. 
No  son  of  Uther,  and  no  king  of  ours  ” ; 
Till  with  a wink  his  dream  was  changed,  the 
haze 

Descended,  and  the  solid  earth  became 
As  nothing,  and  the  king  stood  out  in  heaven. 
Crown’d.  And  Leodogran  awoke,  and  sent 
Ulfius,  and  Brastias  and  Bedivere, 

Back  to  the  court  of  Arthur  answering  yea. 

Then  Arthur  charged  his  warrior  whom  he 
loved 

And  honor’d  most.  Sir  Lancelot,  to  ride 
forth 

And  bring  the  Queen  ; — and  watch’d  him 
from  the  gates  : 

And  Lancelot  past  away  among  the  flowers, 
(For  then  was  latter  April)  and  return’d 
Among  the  flowers,  in  May,  w’ith  Guinevere. 
To  whom  arrived,  by  Dubric  the  high  saint. 
Chief  of  the  church  in  Britain,  and  before 
The  stateliest  of  her  altar-shrines,  the  king 
That  morn  was  married,  while  in  stainless 
white. 

The  fair  beginners  of  a nobler  time. 

And  glorying  in  their  vows  and  him,  his 
knights 

Stood  round  him,  and  rejoicing  in  his  joy. 
And  holy  Dubric  spread  his  hands  and  spake, 
“ Reign  ye,  and  live  and  love,  and  make  the 
world 

Other,  and  may  thy  Queen  be  one  with  thee, 
And  all  this  Order  of  thy  Table  Round 
Fulfil  the  boundless  purpose  of  their  king.” 

Then  at  the  marriage  feast  came  in  from 
Rome, 

The  slowly-fading  mistress  of  the  world. 
Great  lords,  who  claim’d  the  tribute  as  of 
yore. 

But  Arthur  spake,  “ Behold,  for  these  have 
sworn 

To  fight  my  wars,  and  worship  me  their  king  ; 
The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 
new  ; 

And  we  that  fight  for  our  fair  father  Christ, 
Seeing  that  ye  be  grown  too  weak  and  old 
To  drive  the  heathen  from  your  Roman  wall. 
No  tribute  will  we  pay”:  so  those  great 
lords 

Drew  back  in  wrath,  and  Arthur  strove  with 
Rome. 

And  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  for  a space 
Were  all  one  will,  and  thro’  that  strength  the 
king 

Drew  in  the  petty  princedoms  under  him, 
Fought,  and  in  twelve  great  battles  over- 
came 

The  heathen  hordes,  and  made  a realm  and 
reign’d. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 

From  noiseful  arms,  and  acts  of  prowess 
done 

In  tournament  or  tilt.  Sir  Percivale, 

Whom  Arthur  and  his  knighthood  call’d^The 
Pure, 

Had  pass’d  into  the  silent  life  of  prayer. 
Praise,  fast,  and  alms ; and  leaving  for  the 
cowl 

The  helmet  in  an  abbey  far  away 
From  Camelot,  there,  and  not  long  after, 
died. 

And  one,  a fellow-monk  among  the  rest, 
Ambrosius,  loved  him  much  beyond  the  rest, 
And  honor’d  him,  and  wrought  into  his  heart 
A way  by  love  that  waken’d  love  within. 

To  answer  that  which  came  : and  as  they  sat 
Beneath  a world-old  yew-tree,  darkening  half 
The  cloisters,  on  a gustful  April  morn 
That  puff’d  the  swaying  branches  into  smoke 
Above  them,  ere  the  summer  when  he  died, 
The  monk  Ambrosius  question’d  Percivale  : 

“ O brother,  I have  seen  this  yew-tree 
smoke. 

Spring  after  spring,  for  half  a hundred  years  : 
For  never  have  I known  the  world  without. 
Nor  ever  stray’d  beyond  the  pale  : but  thee. 
When  first  thou  earnest  — such  a courtesy 
Spake  thro’  the  limbs  and  in  the  voice — I 
knew 

For  one  of  those  who  eat  in  Arthur’s  hall ; 
For  good  ye  are  and  bad,  and  like  to  coins, 
Some  true,  some  light,  but  every  one  of  you 
Stamp’d  with  the  image  of  the  King;  and  now 
Tell  me,  what  drove  thee  from  the  Table 
Round, 

My  brother  ? was  it  earthly  passion  crost  ? ” 

“Nay,”  said  the  knight;  “for  no  such 
passion  mine. 

But  the  sweet  vision  of  the  Holy  Grail 
Drove  me  from  all  vainglories,  rivalries. 

And  earthly  heats  that  spring  and  sparkle  out 
Among  us  in  the  jousts,  while  women  watch 
Who  wins,  who  falls  ; and  waste  the  spiritual 
strength 

Within  us,  better  offer’d  up  to  Heaven.” 

To  whom  the  monk : “ The  Holy  Grail ! — 
I trust 

We  are  green  in  Heaven’s  eyes ; but  here  too 
much 

We  moulder  — as  to  things  without  I mean — 
Yet  one  of  your  own  knights,  a guest  of  ours. 
Told  us  of  this  in  our  refectory, 

But  spake  with  such  a sadness  and  so  low 
We  heard  not  half  of  what  he  said.  What  is  it? 
The  phantom  of  a cup  that  comes  and  goes  ? ” 

“ Nay,  monk  ! what  phantom?  ” answer’d 
Percivale, 

“ The  cup,  the  cup  itself,  from  which  our  Lord 
Drank  at  the  last  sad  supper  with  his  own. 
This,  from  the  blessed  land  of  Aromat  — 
After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 


250 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


Went  wandering  o’er  Moriah  — the  good 
saint, 

Arimatlijean  Joseph,  journeying  brought 
To  Glastonbury,  where  the  winter  thorn 
Blossoms  at  Christmas,  mindful  of  our  Lord. 
And  there  awhile  it  bode  ; and  if  a man 
Could  touch  or  see  it,  he  was  heal’d  at  once. 
By  faith,  of  all  his  ills.  But  then  the  times 
Grew  to  such  evil  that  the  holy  cup 
Was  caught  away  to  Heaven,  and  disap- 
pear’d.” 

To  whom  the  monk : “ From  our  old  books 
I know 

That  Joseph  came  of  old  to  Glastonbury, 
And  there  the  heathen  Prince,  Arviragus, 
Gave  him  an  isle  of  marsh  whereon  to  build; 
And  there  he  built  with  W'attles  from  the 
marsh 

A little  lonely  church  in  days  of  yore, 

F or  so  they  say,  these  books  of  ours,  but  seem 
Mute  of  this  miracle,  far  as  I have  read. 

But  who  first  saw  the  holy  thing  to-day  ? ” 

“ A woman,”  answer’d  Percivale,  “ a nun. 
And  one  no  further  off  in  blood  from  me 
Than  sister  ; and  if  ever  holy  maid 
With  knees  of  adoration  wore  the  stone, 

A holy  maid  ; tho’  never  maiden  glow’d. 
But  that  was  in  her  earlier  maidenhood. 
With  such  a fervent  flame  of  human  love. 
Which  being  rudely  blunted,  glanced  and  shot 
Only  to  holy  things  : to  prayer  and  praise 
She  gave  herself,  to  fast  and  alms.  And  yet. 
Nun  as  she  was,  the  scandal  of  the  Court, 
Sin  against  Arthur  and  the  Table  Round, 
And  the  strange  sound  of  an  adulterous  race, 
Across  the  iron  grating  of  her  cell 
Beat,  and  she  pray’d  and  fasted  all  the  more. 

“ And  he  to  whom  she  told  her  sins,  or  what 
Her  all  but  utter  whiteness  held  for  sin, 

A man  wellnigh  a hundred  winters  old, 
Spake  often  with  her  of  the  Holy  Grail, 

A legend  handed  down  thro’  five  or  six. 

And  each  of  these  a hundred  winters  old. 
From  our  Lord’s  time.  And  when  King  Ar- 
thur made 

His  Table  Round,  and  all  men’s  hearts  be- 
came 

Clean  for  a season,  surely  he  had  thought 
That  now  the  Holy  Grail  would  come  again  ; 
But  sin  broke  out.  Ah,  Christ,  that  it  would 
come. 

And  heal  the  world  of  all  their  wickedness  ! 
‘ O Father!’  asked  the  maiden,  ‘might  it 
come 

To  me  by  prayer  and  fasting  ? ’ * Nay,’  said 

he, 

‘ I know  not,  for  thy  heart  is  pure  as  snow.’ 
And  so  she  pray’d  and  fasted,  till  the  sun 
Shone,  and  the  wind  blew,  thro’  her,  and  I 
thought 

She  might  have  risen  and  floated  when  I saw 
her. 

“ For  on  a day  she  sent  to  speak  with  me. 
And  when  she  came  to  speak,  behold  her  eyes 


Beyond  my  knowing  of  them,  beautiful, 
Beyond  all  knowing  of  them,  wonderful. 
Beautiful  in  the  light  of  holiness. 

And  ‘O  my  brother,  Percivale,’  she  said, 

‘ Sweet  brother,  I have  seen  the  Holy  Grail : 
For,  waked  at  dead  of  night,  I heard  a sound 
As  of  a silver  horn  from  o’er  the  hills 
Blown,  and  I thought,  “ It  is  not  Arthur’s  use 
To  hunt  by  moonlight  ” ; and  the  slender 
sound 

As  from  a distance  beyond  distance  grew 
Coming  upon  me — O never  harp  nor  horn, 
Nor  aught  we  blow  with  breath,  or  touch 
with  hand, 

Was  like  that  music  as  it  came  ; and  then 
Stream’d  thro’  my  cell  a cold  and  silver 
beam. 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy 
Grail, 

Rose-red  with  beatings  in  it,  as  if  alive. 

Till  all  the  white  walls  of  my  cell  were  dyed 
With  rosy  colors  leaping  on  the  wall ; 

And  then  the  music  faded,  and  the  Grail 
Pass’d,  and  the  beam  decay’d,  and  from  the 
walls 

The  rosy  quiverings  died  into  the  night. 

So  now  the  Holy  Thing  is  here  again 
Among  us,  brother,  fast  thou  too  and  pray. 
And  tell  thy  brother  knights  to  fhst  and  pray. 
That  so  perchance  the  vision  may  be  seen 
By  thee  and  those,  and  all  the  w’orld  be 
heal’d.’ 

“ Then  leaving  the  pale  nun,  I spake  of  this 
To  all  men  ; and  myself  fasted  and  pray’d 
Always;  and  many  among  us  many  a week 
Fasted  and  pray’d  even  to  the  uttermost. 
Expectant  of  the  wonder  that  w'ould  be. 

“ And  one  there  was  among  us,  ever  moved 
Among  us  in  white  armor,  Galahad. 

‘God  make  thee  good  as  thou  art  beautiful,’ 
Said  Arthur,  when  he  dubb’d  him  knight ; 
and  none. 

In  so  young  youth,  was  ever  made  a knight 
Till  Galahad ; and  this  Galahad,  w’hen  he 
heard 

My  sister’s  vision,  fill’d  me  with  amaze  ; 

His  eyes  became  so  like  her  owm,  they 
seem’d 

Hers,  and  himself  her  brother  more  than  1. 

“ Sister  or  brother  none  had  he  ; but  some 
Call’d  him  a son  of  Lancelot,  and  some  said 
Begotten  by  enchantment — chatterers  they, 
Like  birds  of  passage  piping  up  and  down. 
That  gape  for  flies  — we  know  not  whence 
they  come ; 

For  when  was  Lancelot  wanderingly  lewd? 

“ But  she,  the  wan  sweet  maiden  shore 
away 

Clean  from  her  forehead  all  that  wealth  of  hair 
Which  made  a silken  mat-work  for  her  feet ; 
And  out  of  this  she  plaited  broad  and  long 
A strong  sword-belt,  and  W'ove  with  silver 
thread 

And  crimson  in  the  belt  a strange  device, 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL.  251 


A crimson  grail  within  a silver  beam  ; 

And  saw  the  bright  boy-knight,  and  bound 
it  on  him, 

Saying,  ‘ My  knight,  my  love,  my  knight  of 
heaven, 

O thou,  my  love,  whose  love  is  one  with  mine, 
I,  maiden,  round  thee,  maiden,  bind  my 
belt. 

Go  forth,  for  thou  shalt  see  what  I have  seen, 
And  break  thro’  all,  till  one  will  crown  thee 
king 

Far  in  the  spiritual  city  ’ : and  as  she  spake 
She  sent  the  deathless  passion  in  her  eyes 
Thro’  him,  and  made  him  hers,  and  laid  her 
mind 

On  him,  and  he  believed  in  her  belief. 

“ Then  came  a year  of  miracle  : O brother. 
In  our  great  hall  there  stood  a vacant  chair. 
Fashion’d  by  Merlin  ere  he  past  away, 

And  carven  with  strange  figures  ; and  in  and 
out 

The  figures,  like  a serpent,  ran  a scroll 
Of  letters  in  a tongue  no  man  could  read. 
And  Merlin  call’d  it  ‘ The  Siege  perilous,’ 
Perilous  for  good  and  ill  ; ‘ for  there,’  he  said, 

‘ No  man  could  sit  but  he  should  lose  him- 
self* : 

And  once  by  misadvertence  Merlin  sat 
In  his  own  chair,  and  so  was  lost ; but  he, 
Galahad,  when  he  heard  of  Merlin’s  doom. 
Cried,  ‘ If  I lose  myself  I save  myself ! ’ 

“ Then  on  a summer  night  it  came  to  pass. 
While  the  great  banquet  lay  along  the  hall, 
That  Galahad  would  sit  down  in  Merlin’s 
chair. 

“ And  all  at  once,  as  there  we  sat,  we  heard 
A cracking  and  a riving  of  the  roofs, 

And  rending,  and  a blast,  and  overhead 
Thunder,  and  in  the  thunder  was  a cry. 

And  in  the  blast  there  smote  along  the  hall 
A beam  of  light  seven  times  more  clear  than 
day : 

And  down  the  long  beam  stole  the  Holy  Grail 
All  over  cover’d  with  a luminous  cloud. 

And  none  might  see  who  bare  it,  and  it  past. 
But  every  knight  beheld  his  fellow’s  face 
As  in  a glory,  and  all  the  knights  arose. 

And  staring  each  at  other  like  dumb  men 
Stood,  till  I found  a voice  and  sware  a vow. 

“ I sware  a vow  before  them  all,  that  I, 
Because  I had  not  seen  the  Grail,  would  ride 
A twelvemonth  and  a day  in  quest  of  it. 
Until  I found  and  saw  it,  as  the  nun 
My  sister  saw  it ; and  Galahad  sware  the  vow, 
And  good  Sir  Bors,  our  Lancelot’s  cousin, 
sware. 

And  Lancelot  sware,  and  many  among  the 
knights. 

And  Gaw'ain  sware,  and  louder  than  the  rest.” 

Then  spake  the  monk  Ambrosius,  asking 
him, 

‘ What  said  the  king  ? Did  Arthur  take  the 
vow?” 


“Nay,  for  my  lord,”  said  Percivale,  “the 
King 

Was  not  in  hall : for  early  that  same  day, 
’Scaped  thro’  a cavern  from  a bandit  hold. 
An  outraged  maiden  sprang  into  the  hall 
Crying  on  help  : for  all  her  shining  hair 
Was  smear’d  with  earth,  and  either  milky 
arm 

Red-rent  with  hooks  of  bramble,  and  all  she 
wore 

Torn  as  a sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is  tom 
In  tempest : so  the  King  arose  and  went 
To  smoke  the  scandalous  hive  of  those  wild 
bees 

That  made  such  honey  in  his  realm.  Howbeit 
Some  little  of  this  marvel  he  too  saw. 
Returning  o’er  the  plain  that  then  began 
To  darken  under  Camelot ; whence  the  King 
Look’d  up,  calling  aloud,  ‘Lo  there  ! the 
roofs 

Of  our  great  Hall  are  rolled  in  thunder- 
smoke  ! 

Pray  Heaven,  they  be  not  smitten  by  the 
bolt.’ 

For  dear  to  Arthur  was  that  hall  of  ours, 

As  having  there  so  oft  with  all  his  knights 
Feasted,  and  as  the  stateliest  under  heaven. 

“ O brother,  had  you  known  our  mighty 
hall. 

Which  Merlin  built  for  Arthur  long  ago  ! 
For  all  the  sacred  mount  of  Camelot, 

And  all  the  dim  rich  city,  roof  by  roof. 
Tower  after  tower,  spire  beyond  spire. 

By  grove,  and  garden-lawn,  and  rushing 
brook. 

Climbs  to  the  mighty  hall  that  Merlin  built. 
And  four  great  zones  of  sculpture,  set  betwixt 
With  many  a mystic  symbol,  gird  the  hall ; 
And  in  the  lowest  beasts  are  slaying  men, 
And  in  the  second  men  are  slaying  beasts, 
And  on  the  third  are  warriors,  perfect  men. 
And  on  the  fourth  are  men  with  growing 
wings. 

And  over  all  one  statue  in  the  mould 
Of  Arthur,  made  by  Merlin,  w'ith  a crown. 
And  peak’d  wings  pointed  to  the  Northern 
Star. 

And  eastward  fronts  the  statue,  and  the  crown 
And  both  the  wings  are  made  of  gold,  and 
flame 

At  sunrise  till  the  people  in  far  fields, 
Wasted  so  often  by  the  heathen  hordes,  . 
Behold  it,  crying,  ‘ We  have  still  a king.’ 

“ And,  brother,  had  you  known  our  hall 
within. 

Broader  and  higher  than  any  in  all  the  lands  ! 
Where  twelve  great  windows  blazon  Arthur’s 
w'ars. 

And  all  the  light  that  falls  upon  the  board 
Streams  thro’  the  twelve  great  battles  of  our 
•King. 

Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern  end. 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount  and 
mere. 

Where  Arthur  finds  the  brand,  Excalibur. 
And  also  one  to  the  west,  and  counter  to  it, 


252  THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


And  blank  : and  who  shall  blazon  it?  when 
and  how  ? — 

0 there,  perchance,  when  all  our  w'ars  are 

done. 

The  brand  Excalibur  will  be  cast  away. 

“ So  to  this  hall  full  quickly  rede  the  King, 
In  horror  lest  the  work  by  Merlin  wrought. 
Dreamlike,  should  on  the  sudden  vanish, 
wrapt 

In  unremorseful  folds  of  rolling  fire. 

And  in  he  rode,  and  up  I glanced,  and  saw 
The  golden  dragon  sparkling  over  all  : 

And  many  of  those  who  burnt  the  hold,  their 
arms 

Hack’d,  and  their  foreheads  grimed  with 
smoke,  and  sear’d. 

Follow’d,  and  in  among  bright  faces,  ours, 
Full  of  the  vision,  prest : and  then  the  King 
Spake  to  me,  being  nearest,  ‘ Percivale, 
(Because  the  hall  was  all  in  tumult  — some 
Vowing,  and  some  protesting,)  ‘ what  is  this  ?’ 

“O  brother,  when  I told  him  what  had 
chanced. 

My  sister’s  vision,  and  the  rest,  his  face 
Darken’d,  as  I have  seen  it  rhore  than  once, 
When  some  brave  deed  seem’d  to  be  done  in 
vain. 

Darken  ; and  ‘Woe  is  me,  my  knights  ! * he 
cried, 

‘ Had  I been  jjere,  ye  had  not  sworn  the  vow.’ 
Bold  was  mine  answer,  ‘ Had  thyself  been 
here, 

My  King,  thou  w'ouldst  have  sworn.*  ‘Yea, 
yea,’  said  he, 

‘Art  thou  so  bold  and  hast  not  seen  the 
Grail?’ 

“ * Nay,  Lord,  I heard  the  soi!^nd,  I saw 
the  light. 

But  since  I did  not  see  the  Holy  Thing, 

1 sware  a vow  to  follow  it  till  I saw.’ 

“ Then  when  he  asked  us,  knight  by  knight, 
if  any 

Had  seen  it,  all  their  answers  were  as  one  : 

‘ Nay,  Lord,  and  therefore  have  we  sworn 
our  vows.’ 

“ ‘ Lo  now,’  said  Arthur,  ‘ have  ye  seen  a 
cloud  ? 

What  go  ye  into  the  w’ilderness  to  see  ? ’ 

“ Then  Galahad  on  the  sudden,  and  in  a 
voice 

Shrilling  along  the  hall  to  Arthur,  call’d, 

‘ But  I,  Sir  Arthur,  saw  the  Holy  Grail, 

I saw  the  Holy  Grail  and  heard  a cry  — 

O Galahad,  and  O Galahad,  follow  me.’ 

“ ‘ Ah,  Galahad,  Galahad,’  said  the  King, 
‘ for  such 

As  thou  art  is  the  vision,  not  for  these. 

Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  seen  a sign  — 
Holier  is  none,  my  Percivale,  than  she  — 

A sign  to  maim  this  Order  which  I made. 
But  you,  that  follow  but  the  leader’s  bell,’ 


(Brother,  the  kingwas  hard  upon  his  knights,) 

‘ Taliessin  is  our  fullest  throat  of  song. 

And  one  hath  sung  and  all  the  dumb  will  sing. 
Lancelot  is  Lancelot,  and  hath  overborne 
Five  knights  at  once,  and  every  younger 
knight. 

Unproven,  holds  himself  as  Lancelot, 

Till  overborne  by  one,  he  learns  — and  ye. 
What  are  ye?  Galahads?  — no,  nor  Perci- 
vales  ’ 

(For  thus  it  pleased  the  King  to  range  me 
close 

After  Sir  Galahad)  ; ‘ nay,’  said  he,  ‘ but  men 
With  strength  and  w'ill  to  right  the  wrong’d, 
of  power 

To  lay  the  sudden  heads  of  violence  flat, 
Knights  that  in  twelve  great  battles  splash’d 
and  dyed 

The  strong  White  Horse  in  his  own  heathen 
blood  — 

But  one  hath  seen,  and  all  the  blind  will  see. 
Go,  since  your  vows  are  sacred,being  made: 
Yet  — for  ye  know  the  cries  of  all  my  realm. 
Pass  thro’  this  hall— how  often,  O my  knights, 
Your  places  being  vacant  at  my  side. 

This  chance  of  noble  deeds  will  come  and  go 
Unchallenged,  while  you  follow  wandering 
fires 

Lost  in  the  quagmire?  many  of  you,  yea  most. 
Return  no  more:  ye  think  I show  myself 
Too  dark  a prophet : come  now,  let  us  meet 
The  morrow  morn  once  more  in  one  full 
field 

Of  gracious  pastime,  that  once  more  the  king, 
Before  you  leave  him  for  this  Quest,  may 
count 

The  yet-unbroken  strength  of  all  his  knights. 
Rejoicing  in  that  Order  which  he  made.’ 

“ So  when  the  sun  broke  next  from  under- 
ground. 

All  the  great  table  of  our  Arthur  closed 
And  clash’d  in  such  a tourney  and  so  full. 

So  many  lances  broken  — never  5'et 
HadCamelotseen  the  like,  since  Arthurcame; 
And  I myself  and  Galahad,  for  a strength 
Was  in  us  from  the  vision,  overthrew 
So  many  knights  that  all  the  people  cried. 
And  almost  burst  the  barriers  in  their  heat. 
Shouting  ‘ Sir  Galahad  and  Sir  Percivale  I ’ 

“ But  when  the  next  day  brake  from  under- 
ground — 

O brother,  had  you  knowTi  our  Camelot, 
Built  by  old  kings,  age  after  age,  so  old 
The  king  himself  had  fears  that  it  w'ouldfall. 
So  strange,  and  rich,  and  dim ; for  where  the 
roofs 

Totter’d  toward  each  other  in  the  sky. 

Met  foreheads  all  along  the  street  of  those 
Who  watch’d  us  pass  ; and  lower,  and  where 
the  long 

Rich  galleries,  lady-laden,  weigh’d  the  necks 
Of  dragons  clinging  to  the  crazy  walls. 
Thicker  than  drops  frpm  thunder,  showers  of 
flowers 

Fell  as  we  past ; and  men  and  boys  astride 
On  w'yvern,  lion,  dragon,  griifin,  swan. 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


253 


At  all  the  corners,  named  us  each  by  name, 
Calling  ‘ God  speed  ! ’ but  in  the  street  below 
The  knights  and  ladies  wept,  and  rich  and 
poor  * 

Wept,  and  the  King  himself  could  hardly 
speak 

For  grief,  and  in  the  middle  street  the 
Queen, 

Who  rode  by  Lancelot,  wail’d  and  shriek’d 
aloud, 

‘This  madness  has  come  on  us  for  our  sins.’ 
And  then  we  reach’d  the  weirdly  sculptured 
gate. 

Where  Arthur’s  wars  were  render’d  mysti- 
cally. 

And  thence  departed  every  one  his  way. 

“ And  I was  lifted  up  in  heart,  and  thought 
Of  all  my  late-shown  prowess  in  the  lists. 
How  my  strong  lance  had  beaten  down  the 
knights. 

So  many  and  famous  names  ; and  never  yet 
Had  heaven  appear’d  so  blue,  nor  earth  so 
green. 

For  all  my  blood  danced  in  me,  and  I knew 
That  I should  light  upon  the  Holy  Grail. 

“ Thereafter,  the  dark  warning  of  our  King, 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering  fires. 
Came  like  a driving  gloom  across  my  mind. 
Then  every  evil  word  I had  spoken  once. 
And  every  evil  thought  I had  thought  of  old. 
And  every  evil  deed  I ever  did, 

Awoke  and  cried,  ‘ This  Quest  is  not  for  thee.  ’ 
And  lifting  up  mine  eyes,  I found  myself 
Alone,  and  in  a land  of  sand  and  thorns, 

And  I w'as  thirsty  even  unto  death  ; 

And  1,  too,  cried,  ‘This  Quest  is  not  for  thee.* 

“ And  on  I rode,  and  when  I thought  my 
thirst 

Would  slay  me,  saw  deep  lawns,  and  then  a 
brook. 

With  one  sharp  rapid,  where  the  crisping 
white 

Play’d  ever  back  upon  the  sloping  wave. 

And  took  both  ear  and  eye  ; and  o’er  the 
brook 

Were  apple-trees,  and  apples  by  the  brook 
Fallen,  and  on  the  lawns,  ‘ I will  rest  here,’ 

I said,  ‘ I am  not  worthy  of  the  Quest  ’ ; 

But  even  while  I drank’the  brook,  and  ate 
T.  he  goodly  apples,  all  these  things  at  once 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone. 

And  thirsting,  in  a land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

“ And  then  behold  a woman  at  a door 
Spinning ; and  fair  the  house  whereby  she  sat. 
And  kind  the  woman’s  eyes  and  innocent. 
And  all  her  bearing  gracious  ; and  she  rose 
Opening  her  arms  to  meet  me,  as  who  should 
say, 

‘ Rest  here  ’ ; but  when  I touched  her,  lo  ! 
she,  too. 

Fell  into  dust  and  nothing,  and  the  house 
Became  no  better  than  a broken  shed. 

And  in  it  a dead  babe  ; and  also  this 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I was  left  alone. 


“ And  on  I rode,  and  greater  was  my  thirst. 
Then  flash’d  a yellow  gleam  across  the  world. 
And  where  it  smote  the  ploughshare  in  the 
field. 

The  ploughman  left  his  ploughing,  and  fell 
down 

Before  it ; where  it  glitter’d  on  her  pail. 

The  milkmaid  left  her  milking,  and  tell  down 
Before  it,  and  I knew  not  why,  but  thought 
‘ The  sun  is  rising,’  tho’  the  sun  had  ri^en. 
Then  was  I ware  of  one  that  on  me  moved 
In  golden  armor  w ith  a crown  of  gold 
About  a casque  all  jewels  ; and  his  horse 
In  golden  armor  jewell’d  everywhere  ; 

And  on  the  splendor  came,  flashing  me  blind  ; 
And  seem’d  to  me  the  Lord  of  all  the  world. 
Being  so  huge.  But  when  1 thought  he  meant 
To  crush  me,  moving  on  me,  lo  ! he,  too. 
Opened  his  arms  to  embrace  me  as  he  came. 
And  up  I went  and  touch’d  him,  and  he,  too. 
Fell  into  dust,  and  I w’as  left  alone 
And  wearying  in  a land  of  sand  and  thorns. 

“ And  I rode  on  and  found  a mighty  hill. 
And  on  the  top,  a city  wall’d  : the  spires 
Prick’d  with  incredible  pinnacles  into  heaven. 
And  by  the  gateway  stirr’d  a crowd;  and 
these 

Cried  to  me  climbing,  ‘Welcome,  Percivale! 
Thou  mightiestand  thou  purest  among  men  !’ 
And  glad  was  I and  clomb,  but  found  at  top 
No  man,  nor  any  voice.  And  thence  I past 
Far  thro’  a ruinous  city,  and  I saw 
That  man  had  once  dwelt  there ; but  there 
I found 

Only  one  man  of  an  exceeding  age. 

‘ Where  is  that  goodly  company,’  said  I, 

‘ That  so  cried  out  upon  me  ? ’ and  he  had 
Scarce  any  voice  to  answ’er,  and  yet  gasp’d 
‘ Whence  .and  what  art  thou  ? ’ and  even  as  he 
spoke 

Fell  into  dust,  and  disappear’d,  and  I 
Was  left  alone  once  more,  and  cried  in  grief, 

‘ Lo,  if  I find  the  Holy  Grail  itself 
And  touch  it,  it  will  crumble  into  dust.* 

“ And  thence  I dropt  into  a lowly  vale. 
Low  as  the  hill  was  high,  and  where  the  vale 
Was  lowest,  found  a chapel  and  thereby 
A holy  hermit  in  a hermitage. 

To  whom  I told  my  phantoms,  and  he  said  ; 

“ ‘ O son,  thou  hast  not  true  humility. 

The  highest  virtue,  mother  of  them  all ; 

For  when  the  Lord  of  all  things  made  Him- 
self 

Naked  of  glory  for  His  mortal  change, 
“Take  thou  my  robe,’’  she  said,  “for  all  is 
thine.” 

And  all  her  form  shone  forth  with  sudden 
light 

So  that  the  angels  were  amazed,  and  she 
Follow’d  him  down,  and  like  a flying  star 
Led  on  the  gray-hair’d  wisdom  of  the  east ; 
But  her  thou  hast  not  known  : for  what  is  this 
Thou  thoughtest  of  thy  prowess  and  thy  sins.^ 
Thou  hast  not  lost  thyself  to  save  thyself 
As  Galahad.’  When  the  hermit  made  an  end, 


254  THE  HOLY  GRAIL. 


In  silver  armor  suddenly  Galahad  shone 
Before  us,  and  against  the  chapel  door 
Laid  lance,  and  enter’d,  and  we  knelt  in 
prayer. 

And  there  the  hermit  slaked  my  burning 
thirst 

And  at  the  sacring  of  the  mass  I saw 
The  holy  elements  alone  ; but  he : 

‘ Saw  ye  no  more  ? I,  Galahad,  saw  the  Grail, 
The  Holy  Grail,  descend  upon  the  shrine  : 

I saw  the  fiery  face  as  of  a child 
That  smote  itself  into  the  bread,  and  went ; 
And  hither  am  I come  ; and  never  yet 
Hath  what  thy  sister  taught  me  first  to  see. 
This  Holy  Thing,  fail’d  from  my  side,  nor 
come 

Cover'd,  but  moving  with  me  night  and  day. 
Fainter  by  day,  but  always  in  the  night 
Blood-red,  and  sliding  down  the  blacken’d 
marsh 

Blood-red,  and  on  the  naked  mountain  top 
Blood-red,  and  in  the  sleeping  mere  below 
Blood-red.  And  in  the  strength  of  this  1 rode, 
Shattering  all  evil  customs  everywhere. 

And  past  thro’  Pagan  realms,  and  made  them 
mine, 

And  clash’d  with  Pagan  hordes,  and  bore 
them  down. 

And  broke  thro’  all,  and  in  the  strength  of  this 
Come  victor.  But  my  time  is  hard  at  hand, 
And  hence  I go  ; and  one  will  crown  me  king 
Far  in  the  spiritual  city  ; and  come  thou,  too. 
For  thou  shalt  see  the  vision  when  I go.’ 

“ While  thus  he  spake,  his  eye,  dwelling 
on  mine, 

Drew  me,  with  power  upon  me,  till  I grew 
One  with  him,  to  believe  as  he  believed. 
Then,  when  the  day  began  to  wane,  we  went. 

“ There  rose  a hill  that  none  but  man  could 
climb, 

Scarr’d  with  a hundred  wintry  watercourses— 
Storm  at  the  top,  and  when  we  gain’d  it, 
storm 

Round  us  and  death  ; for  every  moment 
glanced 

His  silver  arms  and  gloom’d  : so  quick  and 
thick 

The  lightnings  here  and  there  to  left  and 
right 

Struck,  till  the  dry  old  trunks  about  us,  dead. 
Yea,  rotten  with  a hundred  years  of  death, 
Sprang  into  fire  : and  at  the  base  we  found 
On  either  hand,  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 

A great  black  swamp  and  of  an  evil  smell. 
Part  black,  part  whiten’d  with  the  bones  of 
men. 

Not  to  be  crost,  save  that  some  ancient  king 
Had  built  a way,  where,  link’d  with  many  a 
bridge, 

A thousand  piers  ran  into  the  great  Sea. 

And  Galahad  fled  along  them  bridge  by 
bridge. 

And  every  bridge  as  quickly  as  he  crost 
Sprang  into  fire  and  vanish’d,  tho’  I yearn'd 
To  follow ; and  thrice  above  him  all  the  heav- 
ens 


Open’d  and  blazed  with  thunder  such  as 
seem’d 

Shoutings  of  all  the  sons  of  God  : and  first 
At  once  1 saw  him  far  on  the  great  Sea, 

In  silver-shining  armor  starry-clear; 

And  o’er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Clothed  in  white  samite  or  a luminous  cloud. 
And  with  exceeding  swiftness  ran  the  boat 
If  boat  it  were  — I saw  not  whence  it  came. 
And  when  the  heavens  open’d  and  blazed 
again 

Roaring,  I saw  him  like  a silver  star  — 

And  had  he  set  the  sail,  or  had  the  boat 
Become  a living  creature  clad  with  wings  ? 
And  o’er  his  head  the  holy  vessel  hung 
Redder  than  any  rose,  a joy  to  me. 

For  now  I knew  the  veil  had  been  w ithdrawn. 
Then  in  a moment  when  they  blazed  again 
Opening,  I saw'  the  least  of  little  stars 
Down  on  the  waste,  and  straight  beyond  the 
star 

I saw  the  spiritual  city  and  all  her  spires 
And  gateways  in  a glory  like  one  pearl  — 
No  larger,  tho’  the  goal  of  all  the  saints  — 
Strike  from  the  sea ; and  from  the  star  there 
shot 

A rose-red  sparkle  to  the  city,  and  there 
Dwelt,  and  I knew  it  was  the  Holy  Grail, 
Which  never  eyes  on  earth  again  shall  see. 
Then  fell  the  floods  of  heaven  drowning  the 
deep. 

And  how  my  feet  recross’d  the  deathful  ridge 
No  memory  in  me  lives  ; but  that  I touch’d 
The  chapel-doors  at  dawn  I know;  and 
thence 

Taking  my  war-horse  from  the  holy  man. 
Glad  that  no  phantom  vext  me  more,  return’d 
To  whence  1 came,  the  gate  of  Arthur’s 
wars.” 

“ O brother,”  ask’d  Ambrosius,  — “ for  in 
sooth 

These  ancient  books  — and  they  w'ould  win 
thee  — teem. 

Only  I find  not  there  this  Holy  Grail, 

With  miracles  and  marvels  like  to  these. 
Not  all  unlike  ; which  oftentime  I read. 
Who  read^but  on  my  breviary  with  e^se. 

Till  my  head  swims  ; and  then  go  forth  and 
pass 

Down  to  the  little  thorpe  that  lies  so  close. 
And  almost  plaster’d  like  a martin’s  nest 
To  these  old  w'alls — and  mingle  with  our 
folk ; 

And  knowing  every  honest  face  of  theirs. 

As  well  as  ever  shepherd  knew  his  sheep. 
And  every  homely  secret  in  their  hearts. 
Delight  myself  with  gossip  and  old  wives. 
And  ills  and  aches,  and  teethings,  lyings-in. 
And  mirthful  sayings,  children  of  the  place. 
That  have  no  meaning  half  a league  away : 
Or  lulling  random  squabbles  when  they  rise, 
Chafferings  and  chatterings  at  the  market- 
cross. 

Rejoice,  small  man,  in  this  small  world  of 
mine, 

Yea,  even  in  their  hens  and  in  their  eggs,  — 
O brother,  saving  this  Sir  Galahad 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL,  255 


Came  ye  on  none  but  phantoms  in  your  quest, 
No  man,  no  woman?  ” 

Then,  Sir  Percivale  : 

“ All  men,  to  one  so  bound  by  such  a vow. 
And  women  were  as  phantoms.  O my 
brother, 

Why  wilt  thou  shame  me  to  confess  to  thee 
How  far  [ falter’d  from  my  quest  and  vow  ? 
For  after  I had  lain  so  many  nights 
A bedmate  of  the  snail  and  eft  and  snake. 

In  grass  and  burdock,  I was  changed  to  wan 
And  meagre,  and  the  vision  had  not  come. 
And  then  I chanced  upon  a goodly  town 
With  one  great  dwelling  in  the  middle  of  it ; 
Thither  I made,  and  there  was  I disarm’d 
By  maidens  each  as  fair  as  any  flower  : 

But  when  they  led  me  into  hall,  behold 
The  Princess  of  that  castle  was  the  one. 
Brother,  and  that  one  only,  who  had  ever 
Made  my  heart  leap  ; for  when  I moved  of  old 
A slender  page  about  her  father’s  hall, 

And  she  a slender  maiden,  all  my  heart . 
Went  after  her  with  longing  : yet  we  twain 
Had  never  kiss’d  a kiss,  or  vow’d  a vow. 

And  now  I came  upon  her  once  again. 

And  one  had  wedded  her,  and  he  was  dead. 
And  all  his  land  and  wealth  and  state  were 
hers. 

And  while  I tarried,  every  day  she  set 
A banquet  richer  than  the  day  before 
By  me  ; for  all  her  longing  and  her  will 
Was  toward  me  as  of  old  ; till  one  fair  mom, 

I walking  to  and  fro  beside  a stream 
That  flash’d  across  her  orchard  underneath 
Her  castle-walls,  she  stole  upon  my  walk. 
And  calling  me  the  greatest  of  all  knights. 
Embraced  me,  and  so  kiss’d  me  the  first  time. 
And  gave  herself  and  all  her  wealth  to  me. 
Then  I remember’d  Arthur’s  warning  word. 
That  most  of  us  would  follow  wandering  fires. 
And  the  Quest  faded  in  my  heart.  Anon, 
The  heads  of  all  her  people  drew  to  me. 

With  supplication  both  of  knees  and  tongue. 

‘ We  have  heard  of  thee : thou  art  our  great- 
est knight : 

Our  Lady  says  it,  and  we  well  believe  : 

Wed  thou  our  Lady,  and  rule  over  us. 

And  thou  .shalt  be  as  Arthur  in  our  land.* 

O me,  my  brother ! but  one  night  my  vow 
Burnt  rne  within,  so  that  I rose  and  fled. 

But  wail’d  and  wept,  and  hated  mine  own 
self, 

And  ev’n  the  Holy  Quest,  and  all  but  her ; 
Then  after  I was  join’d  with  Galahad 
Cared  not  for  her,  nor  anything  upon  earth.” 

Then  said  the  monk,  “ Poor  men,  when 
yule  is  cold. 

Must  be  content  to  sit  by  little  fires. 

And  this  am  I,  so  that  ye  care  for  me 
Ever  so  little  ; yea,  and  blest  be  Heaven 
That  brought  thee  here  to  this  poor  house  of 
ours, 

Where  all  the  brethren  are  so  hard,  to  warm 
My  cold  heart  with  a friend  : but  O the  pity 
To  find  thine  own  first  love  once  more  — to 
hold, 


Hold  her  a wealthy  bride  within  thine  arms, 
Or  all  but  hold,  and  then  — cast  her  aside. 
Foregoing  all  her  sweetness,  like  a weed. 

For  we  that  w’ant  the  warmth  of  double  life, 
We  that  are  plagued  with  dreams  of  some- 
thing sweet 

Beyond  all  sweetness  in  a life  so  rich, — 

An,  blessed  Lord,  I speak  too  earthlywise, 
Seeing  I never  stray’d  beyond  the  cell. 

But  live  like  an  old  badger  in  his  earth. 

With  earth  about  him  everywhere,  despite 
All  fast  and  penance.  Saw  ye  none  beside, 
None  of  your  knights?” 

“ Yea  so,”  said  Percivale  : 
“ One  night  my  pathway  swerving  east,  I saw 
The  pelican  on  the  casque  of  our  Sir  Bors 
Ail  in  the  middle  of  the  rising  moon  : 

And  toward  him  spurr’d  and  hail’d  him,  and 
he  me. 

And  each  made  joy  of  either  ; then  he  ask’d, 

‘ Where  is  he  ? hast  thou  seen  him  — Lance- 
lot? Once,* 

Said  good  Sir  Bors,  ‘ he  dash’d  across  me  — 
mad. 

And  maddening  what  he  rode  : and  when  I 
cried, 

“ Ridest  thou  then  so  hotly  on  a quest 
So  holy  ? ” Lancelot  shouted,  “ Stay  me  not  I 
I have  been  the  sluggard,  and  I ride  apace, 
For  now  there  is  a lion  in  the  way.” 

So  vanish’d.* 

Then  Sir  Bors  had  ridden  on 
Softly,  and  sorrowing  for  our  Lancelot, 
Becau.se  his  former  madness,  once  the  talk 
And  scandal  of  our  table,  had  return’d  ; 

For  Lancelot’s  kith  and  kin  so  worship  him 
That  ill  to  him  is  ill  to  them  ; to  Bors 
Beyond  the  rest : he  well  had  been  content 
Not  to  have  seen,  so  Lancelot  might  have 
seen. 

The  Holy  Cup  of  healing;  and,  indeed. 
Being  so  clouded  with  his  grief  and  love. 
Small  heart  was  his  after  the  Holy  Quest : 
If  God  would  send  the  vision,  well : if  not. 
The  Quest  and  he  were  in  the  hands  of 
Heaven. 

“ And  then,  with  small  adventure  met,  Sir 
Bors 

Rode  to  the  lonest  tract  of  all  the  realm. 

And  found  a people  there  among  their  crags. 
Our  race  and  blood,  a remnant  that  were  left 
Paynim  amid  their  circle^and  the  stones 
They  pitch  up  straight  tc^eaven  : and  their 
wise  men 

Were  strong  in  that  old  magic  which  can 
trace 

The  wandering  of  the  stars,  and  scoff’d  at 
him. 

And  this  high  Quest  as  at  a simple  thing: 
Told  him  he  follow’d  — almost  Arthur’s 
words  — 

A mocking  fire  : ‘ what  other  fire  than  he^ 
Whereby  the  blood  beats,  and  the  blossom 
blows, 

Andthe  sea  rolls,  and  allthe  world  is  warm’d?* 


2s6  the  holy  grail. 


And  when  his  answer  chafed  them,  the  rough 
crowd, 

Hearing  he  had  a difference  with  their 
priests. 

Seized  him,  and  bound  and  plunged  him  into 
a cell 

Of  great  piled  stones ; and  lying  bounden 
there 

In  darkness  thro’  innumerable  hours 
He  heard  the  hollow-ringing  heavens  sweep 
Over  him,  till  by  miracle  — what  else  ? 
Heavy  as  it  was,  a great  stone  slipt  and  fell. 
Such  as  no  wind  could  move  : and  thro’  the 
gap 

Glimmer’d  the  streaming  scud  : then  came 
a night 

Still  as  the  day  was  loud  ; and  thro’  the  gap 
The  seven  clear  stars  of  Arthur’s  Table 
Round  — 

For,  brother,  so  one  night,  because  they  roll 
Thro’  such  a round  in  heaven,  we  named  the 
stars, 

Rejoicing  in  ourselves  and  in  our  king  — 
And  these,  like  bright  eyes  of  familiar  friends. 
In  on  him  shone,  ‘ And  then  to  me,  to  me,’ 
Said  good  Sir  Bors,  ‘ beyond  all  hopes  of 
mine, 

Who  scarce  had  pray’d  or  ask’d  it  for  my- 
self— 

Across  the  seven  clear  stars  — G grace  to 
me  — 

In  color  like  the  fingers  of  a hand 
Before  a burning  taper,  the  sweet  Grail 
Glided  and  past,  and  close  upon  it  peal’d 
A sharp  quick  thunder.’  Afterwards  a maid. 
Who  kept  our  holy  faith  among  her  kin 
In  secret,  entering  loosed  and  let  him  go.” 

To  whom  the  monk  : “ And  I remember 
now 

That  pelican  on  the  casque  : Sir  Bors  it  was 
Who  spake  so  low  and  sadly  at  our  board  ; 
And  mighty  reverent  at  our  grace  was  he  ; 

A square-set  man  and  honest ; and  his  eyes. 
An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth  w’ithln. 
Smiled  with  his  lips  — a smile  beneath  a 
cloud, 

But  Heaven  had  meant  it  for  a sunny  one  : 
Ay,  ay.  Sir  Bors,  who  else  ? But  w'hen  ye 
reach’d 

The  city,  found  ye  all  your  knights  return’d. 
Or  was  there  sooth  in  Arthur’s  prophecy. 
Tell  me,  and  what  said  each,  and  what  the 
King?” 

Then  answer^  Percivale : “ And  that 
can  I, 

Brother,  and  truly  ; since  the  living  words 
Of  so  great  men  as  Lancelot  and  our  King 
Pass  not  from  door  to  door  and  out  again. 
But  sit  within  the  house.  O,  when  we  reach’d 
The  city,  our  horses  stumbling  as  they  trode 
On  heaps  of  ruin,  hornless  unicorns, 

Crack’d  basilisks,  and  splinter’d  cockatrices. 
And  shatter’d  talbots,  which  had  left  the 
stones 

Raw,  that  they  fell  from,  brought  us  to  the 
hall. 


“ And  there  sat  Arthur  on  the  dais-throne, 
And  those  that  had  gone  out  upon  the 
Quest, 

Wasted  and  worn,  and  but  a tithe  of  them,. 
And  those  that  had  not,  stood  before  tlie 
King. 

Who,  when  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  bade  me 
hail, 

Saying,  ‘ A welfare  in  thine  eye  reproves 
Our  fear  of  some  disastrous  chance  for  thee 
On  hill,  or  plain,  at  sea,  or  flooding  ford. 

So  fierce  a gale  made  havoc  here  of  late 
Among  the  strange  devices  of  our  kings  ; 
Yea,  shook  this  newer,  stronger  hall  of  ours. 
And  from  the  statue  Merlin  moulded  for  us 
Half  wrench’d  a golden  wing  ; but  now  — 
the  quest, 

This  vision  — hast  thou  seen  the  Holy  Cup, 
That  Joseph  brought  of  old  to  Glastonbury?  ’ 

“ So  when  I told  him  all  thyselfhast  heard, 
Ambrosius,  and  my  fresh  but  fixt  resolve 
To  pass  away  into  the  quiet  life,  » 

He  answer’d  not,  but,  sharply  turning,  ask’d 
Of  Gawain,  ‘Gawain,was  this  Quest  for  thee?  ’ 

“ ‘ Nay,  lord,’  said  Gawain,  ‘not  for  such 
as  I. 

Therefore  I communed  with  a saintly  man. 
Who  ntade  me  sure  the  Quest  was  not  for  me. 
For  I was  much  awearied  of  the  Quest ; 

But  found  a silk  pavilion  in  a field. 

And  merry  maidens  in  it ; and  then  this  gale 
Tore  my  pavilion  from  the  tenting-pin, 

And  blew  my  merry  maidens  all  about 
With  all  discomfort ; yea,  and  but  for  this. 
My  twelvemonth  and  a day  were  pleasant  to 
me.’ 

“ He  ceased  ; and  Arthur  turn’d  to  whom 
at  first 

He  saw’  not,  for  Sir  Bors,  on  entering,  push’d 
Athwart  the  throng  to  Lancelot,  caught  his 
hand. 

Held  it,  and  there,  half  hidden  by  him,  stood, 
Until  the  King  espied  him,  saying  to  him, 

‘ Hail,  Bors  ! if  ever  loyal  man  and  true 
Could  see  it,  thou  hast  seen  the  Grail  ’ ; and 
Bors, 

‘^sk  me  not,  for  I may  not  speak  of  it, 

I saw  it  ’ ; and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes  — 

“ Then  there  remain’d  but  Lancelot,  for 
the  rest 

Spake  but  of  sundry  perils  in  the  storm ; 
Perhaps,  like  him  of  Cana  in  Holy  Writ, 
Our  Arthur  kept  his  best  until  the  last. 
‘Thou,  too,  my  Lancelot,’  ask’d  the  King 
‘ my  friend. 

Our  mightiest,  hath  this  Quest  avail’d  for 
thee  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Our  mightiest  ! ’ answer’d  Lancelot, 
with  a groan ; 

‘ O King  ! ’ — and  when  he  paused,  me- 
thought  I spied 

A dying  fire  of  madness  in  his  eyes,  — 

‘ O King,  my  friend,  if  friend  of  thine  I be 


THE  HOLY  GRAIL,  257 


Happier  are  those  that  welter  in  t’  eir  sin, 
Swi.ie  in  ihe  mud,  that  cai.not  see  for  slime, 
Slime  of  the  ditch  : but  in  me  lived  a sin 
So  strange,  of  such  a kind,  that  all  of  pure, 
Noble,  and  knightly  in  me  twined  and  clung 
Round  that  one  sin,  until  the  wholesome 
flower 

And  poisonous  grew  together,  each  as  each, 
Not  to  be  pluck’d  asunder ; and  when  thy 
knights 

Sware,  I sware  with  them  only  in  the  hope 
That  could  I touch  or  see  the  Holy  Grail 
They  might  be  pluck’d  asunder  ; then  I spake 
To  one  most  holy  saint,  who  wept  and  said, 
That  save  they  could  be  pluck’d  asunder,  all 
My  quest  were  but  in  vain  ; to  whom  I vow’d 
That  I would  work  according  as  he  will’d. 
And  forth  I went,  and  while  I yearn’d  and 
strove 

To  tear  the  twain  asunder  in  my  heart. 

My  madness  came  upon  me  as  of  old. 

And  whipt  me  into  waste  fields  far  away; 
There  was  I beaten  down  by  little  men, 
Mean  knights,  to  whom  the  moving  of  my 
sword 

And  shadow  of  my  spear  had  been  enow 
To  scare  them  from  me  once  ; and  then  I 
came 

All  in  my  folly  to  the  naked  shore. 

Wide  flats,  where  nothing  but  coarse  grasses 
grew ; 

But  such  a blast,  my  King,  began  to  blow, 
So  loud  a blast  along  the  shore  and  sea. 

Ye  could  not  hear  the  waters  for  the  blast, 
Tho’  heapt  in  mounds  and  ridges  all  the  sea 
Drove  like  a cataract,  and  all  the  sand 
Swept  like  a river,  and  the  clouded  heavens 
Were  shaken  with  the  motion  and  the  sound. 
And  blackening  in  the  sea-foam  sway’d  a 
boat. 

Half  swallow’d  in  it,  anchor’d  with  a chain  ; 
And  in  my  madness  to  myself  I said, 

“ I will  embark  and  I will  lose  myself. 

And  in  the  great  sea  wash  away  my  sin.” 

I burst  the  chain,  I sprang  into  the  boat. 
Seven  days  I drove  along  the  dreary  deep. 
And  with  me  drove  the  moon  and  all  the 
stars  ; 

And  the  wind  fell,  and  on  the  seventh  night 
I heard  the  shingle  grinding  in  the  surge. 
And  felt  the  boat  shock  earth,  and  looking  up. 
Behold,  the  enchanted  towers  of  Carbonek, 
A castle  like  a rock  upon  a rock. 

With  chasm-like  portals  open  to  the  se% 
And  steps  that  met  the  breaker  I th^re  was 
none 

Stood  near  it  but  a lion  on  each  side 
That  kept  the  entry,  and  the  moon  was  full. 
Then  from  the  boat  I leapt,  and  up  the  stairs. 
There  drew  my  sword.  With  sudden-flaring 
manes 

Those  two  great  beasts  rose  upright  like  a 
man. 

Each  gript  a shoulder,  and  I stood  between  ; 
And,  when  I would  have  smitten  them,  heard 
a voice. 

Doubt  not,  go  forward  ; if  thou  doubt,  the 
beasts 


Will  tear  thee  piecemeal”;  then  with  violence 
The  sw'ord  was  dash’d  from  out  my  hand, 
and  fell. 

And  up  into  the  sounding  hall  I past ; 

But  nothing  in  the  sounding  hall  I saw. 

No  bench  nor  table,  painting  on  the  wall 
Or  shield  of  knight  ; only  the  rounded  moon 
Thro’  the  tall  oriel  on  the  rolling  sea. 

But  always  in  the  quiet  house  I heard. 

Clear  as  a lark,  high  o’er  me  as  a lark, 

A sweet  voice  singing  in  the  topmost  tower 
To  the  eastward  ; up  I climb’d  a thousand 
steps 

With  pain  : as  in  a dream  I seem’d  to  climb 
Forever  : at  the  last  I reach’d  a door, 

A light  was  in  the  crannies,  and  I heard, 

“ Glory  and  joy  and  honor  to  our  Lord 
And  to  the  Holy  Vessel  of  the  Grail.” 

Then  in  my  madness  I essay’d  the  door  ; 

It  gave,  and  thro’  a stormy  glare,  a heat 
As  from  a seventimes-heated  furnace,  I, 
Blasted  and  burnt,  and  blinded  as  I was. 
With  such  a fierceness  thatl  swoon’d  away — 
O,  yet  methou^ht  I saw  the  Holy  Grail, 

All  pall’d  in  crimson  samite,  and  around 
Great  angels,  awful  shapes,  and  wings  and 
eyes. 

And  but  for  all  my  madness  and  my  sin. 
And  then  my  swooning,  I had  sworn  I saw 
That  which  I saw  ; but  what  I saw  was  veil’d 
And  cover’d  ; and  this  quest  was  not  for  me.’ 

“ So  speaking,  and  here  ceasing,  Lancelot 
left 

The  hall  long  silent,  till  Sir  Gawain  — nay. 
Brother,  I need  not  tell  thee  foolish  words,  — 
A reckless  and  irreverent  knight  was  he, 
Now  bolden’d  by  the  silence  of  his  King, 
Well,  I will  tell  thee  : ‘ O king,  my  liege,’  he 
said, 

‘ Hath  Gawain  fail’d  in  any  quest  of  thine? 
When  have  I stinted  stroke  in  fough ten  field? 
But  as  for  thine,  my  good  friend,  Percivale, 
Thy  holy  nun  and  thou  have  driven  men  mad. 
Yea,  made  our  mightiest  madder  than  our 
least. 

But  by  mins  eyes  and  by  mine  ears  I swear, 
I w'ill  be  deafer  than  the  blue-eyed  cat, 

And  thrice  as  blind  as  any  noonday  owl, 

To  holy  virgins  in  their  ecstasies, 
Henceforward.’ 

” ‘ Deafer,’  said  the  blameless  King, 
‘ Gawain,  and  blinder  unto  holy  things 
Hope  not  to  make  thyself  by  idle  vows. 
Being  too  blind  to  have  desire  to  see. 

But  if  indeed  there  came  a sign  from  heaven. 
Blessed  are  Bors,  Lancelot,  and  Percivale, 
For  these  have  seen  according  to  their  sight. 
For  every  fiery  prophet  in  old  times. 

And  all  the  sacred  madness  of  the  bard. 
When  God  made  music  thro’  them,  could 
but  speak 

His  music  by  the  framework  and  the  chord  ; 
And  as  ye  saw  it  ye  have  spoken  truth. 

**  * Nay  — but  thou  errest,  Lancelot : never 
yet 


258  PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


Could  all  of  true  and  noble  in  knight  and  man 
I'wine  round  one  sin,  whatever  it  might  be, 
With  such  a closeness,  but  apart  there  grew. 
Save  that  he  were  the  swine  thou  spakest  of, 
Some  root  of  knighthood  and  pure  nobleness  ; 
Whereto  see  thou,  that  it  may  bear  its  flow'er. 

“ ‘ And  spake  I not  too  truly,  O my 
knights  ? 

Was  I too  dark  a prophet  when  I said 
To  those  who  w'ent  upon  the  Holy  Quest, 
That  most  of  them  would  follow  wandering 
fires. 

Lost  in  the  quagmire?  — lost  to  nte  and  gone. 
And  left  me  gazing  at  a barren  board. 

And  a lean  Order  — scarce  return’d  a tithe  — 
And  out  of  those  to  whom  the  vision  came 
My  greatest  hardly  will  believe  he  saw  ; 
Another  hath  beheld  it  afar  off, 

And  leaving  human  wrongs  to  right  them- 
selves, 

Cares  but  to  pass  into  the  silent  life. 

And  one  hath  had  the  vision  face  to  face. 
And  now  his  chair  desires  him  here  in  vain, 
However  they  may  crown  him  otherwhere. 

“ * And  some  among  you  held,  that  if  the 
King 

Had  seen  the  sight  he  would  have  sworn  the 
vow  : 

Not  easily,  seeing  that  the  King  must  guard 
That  w'hich  he  rules,  and  is  but  as  the  hind, 
To  whom  a space  of  land  is  given  to  plough. 
Who  may  not  wander  from  the  allotted  field. 
Before  his  work  be  done  ; but,  being  done. 
Let  visions  of  the  night  or  of  the  day 
Come,  as  they  will ; and  many  a time  they 
come. 

Until  this  earth  he  w'alks  on  seems  not  earth. 
This  light  that  strikes  his  eyeball  is  notlight. 
This  air  that  smites  his  forehead  is  not  air 
But  vision  — yea,  his  very  hands  and  feet  — 
In  moments  when  he  feels  he  cannot  die. 
And  knows  himself  no  vision  to  himself. 

Nor  the  high  God  a vision,  nor  that  One 
Who  rose  again : ye  have  seen  what  ye  have 
seen.* 

“ So  spake  the  king : I knew  not  all  he 
meant.” 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE. 

King  Arthur  made  new  knights  to  fill  the 

gap 

Left  by  the  Holy  Quest ; and  as  he  sat 
In  hall  at  old  Caerleon,  the  high  doors 
Were  softly  sunder’d,  and  thro’  those  a youth, 
Pelleas,  and  the  sw'eet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with  him. 

“ Make  me  thy  knight,  because  I know'. 
Sir  King, 

All  that  belongs  to  knighthood,  and  I love,” 
Such  w'as  his  cry  ; for  having  heard  tlT«  King 
Had  let  proclaim  a tournament  — the  prize 
A golden  circlet  and  a knightly  sword, 


Full  fain  had  Pelleas  for  his  lady  won 
The  golden  circlet,  for  himself  the  sword  : 
And  there  were  those  who  knew  him  near 
the  King 

And  promised  for  him  : and  Arthur  made 
him  knight. 

And  this  new  knight.  Sir  Pelleas  of  the 
isles  — 

But  lately  come  to  his  inheritance. 

And  lord  of  many  a barren  isle  was  he  — 
Riding  at  noon,  a day  or  twain  before. 
Across  the  forest  call’d  of  Dean,  to  find 
Caerleon  and  the  King,  had  felt  the  sun 
Beat  like  a strong  knight  oif  his  helm,  and 
reel’d 

Almost  to  falling  from  his  horse  ; but  saw 
Near  him  a mound  of  even-sloping  side. 
Whereon  a hundred  stately  beeches  grew. 
And  here  and  there  great  hollies  under  them. 
But  for  a mile  all  round  w'as  open  space, 
And  fern  and  heath : and  slowly  Pelleas  drew 
To  that  dim  day,  then  binding  his  good  horse 
To  a tree,  cast  himself  dowm  ; and  as  he  lay 
At  random  looking  over  the  browm  earth 
Thro’  that  green-glooming  twilight  of  the 
grove. 

It  seem’d  to  Pelleas  that  the  fern  without 
Burnt  as  a living  fire  of  emeralds. 

So  that  his  eyes  were  dazzled  looking  at  it. 
Then  o’er  it  crost  the  dimness  of  a cloud 
Floating,  and  once  the  shadow'  of  a bird 
Flying,  and  then  a faw'n  ; and  his  eyes  closed. 
And  sirice  he  loved  all  maidens,  but  no  maid 
In  special,  half  awake  he  whisper’d,  “ Where? 
O w'here  ? I love  thee,  tho’  I know  thee  not. 
For  fair  thou  art  and  pure  as  Guinevere, 
And  I will  make  thee  w'ith  my  spear  and 
sword 

As  famous  — O my  queen,  my  Guinevere, 
For  I w'ill  be  thine  Arthur  when  we  meet.” 

Suddenly  waken’d  with  a sound  of  talk 
And  laughter  at  the  limit  of  the  wood. 

And  glancing  thro’  the  hoary  boles,  he  saw. 
Strange  as  to  some  old  prophet  might  have 
seem’d 

A vision  hovering  on  a sea  of  fire. 

Damsels  in  divers  colors  like  the  cloud 
Of  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  all  of  them 
On  horses,  and  the  horses  richly  trapt 
Breast-high  in  that  bright  line  of  bracken 
stood  : 

And  all  the  damsels  talk’d  confusedly. 

And  one  was  pointing  this  way,  and  one  that, 
Because  the  way  was  lost. 

And  Pelleas  rose, 
And  loosed  his  horse,  and  led  him  to  the  light. 
There  she  that  seem’d  the  chief  among  them 
said, 

“ In  happy  time  behold  our  pilot-star  ! 
Youth,  w'e  are  damsels-errant,  and  we  ride. 
Arm’d  as  ye  see,  to  tilt  against  the  knights 
There  at  Caerleon,  but  have  lost  our  way  : 
To  right?  to  left?  straight  forward?  back 
again  ? 

Which  ? tell  us  quickly.” 


PEL  LEAS  AND  ETTA  ERE.  *59 


And  Pelleas  gazing  thought, 
" Is  Guinevere  herself  so  beautiful  ? ” 

For  large  her  violet  eyes  look’d,  and  her 
bloom 

A rosy  dawn  kindled  in  stainless  heavens, 
And  round  her  limbs,  mature  in  womanhood. 
And  slender  was  her  hand  and  small  her 
shape, 

And  but  for  those  large  eyes,  the  haunts  of 
scorn. 

She  might  have  seem’d  a toy  to  trifle  with. 
And  pass  and  care  no  more.  But  while  he 
gazed 

The  beauty  of  her  flesh  abash’d  the  boy, 

As  tho’  it  were  the  beauty  of  her  soul : 

For  as  the  base  man,  judging  of  the  good, 
Puts  his  own  baseness  in  him  by  default 
Of  will  and  nature,  so  did  Pelleas  lend 
All  the  young  beauty  of  his  own  soul  to  hers. 
Believing  her  ; and  when  she  spake  to  him, 
Stammer’d,  and  could  not  make  her  a reply. 
For  out  of  the  waste  islands  had  he  come. 
Where  saving  his  own  sisters  he  had  known 
Scarce  any  but  the  women  of  his  isles. 

Rough  wives,  that  laugh’d  and  scream’d 
against  the  gulls. 

Makers  of  nets,  and  living  from  the  sea. 

Then  with  a slow  smile  turn’d  the  lady 
round 

And  look’d  upon  her  people  ; and  as  when 
A stone  is  flung  into  some  sleeping  tarn, 

The  circle  widens  till  it  lip  the  marge, 

Spread  the  slow  smile  thro’  all  her  company. 
Three  knights  were  thereamong  ; and  they 
too  smiled. 

Scorning  him  ; for  the  lady  was  Ettarre, 

And  she  was  a great  lady  in  her  land. 

Again  she  said,  “ O wild  and  of  the  woods, 
Knowest  thou  not  the  fashion  of  our  speech  ? 
Orhavethe  Heavensbut  given  thee  a fair  face. 
Lacking  a tongue  ? ” 

O damsel,”  answer’d  he, 
“ I woke  from  dreams  ; and  coming  out  of 
gloom 

Was  dazzled  by  the  sudden  light,  and  crave 
Pardon  : but  will  ye  to  Caerleon  ? I 
Go  likewise  ; shall  I lead  you  to  the  King  ? ” 

“ Lead  then,”  she  said ; and  thro’  the 
woods  they  went. 

And  while  they  rode,  the  meaning  in  his  eyes. 
His  tenderness  of  manner,  and  chaste  awe. 
His  broken  utterances  and  bashfulness. 
Were  all  a burden  to  her,  and  in  her  heart 
She  mutter’d,  “ I have  lighted  on  a fool. 
Raw,  yet  so  stale  ! ” but  since  her  mind  was 
bent 

On  hearing,  after  trumpet  blown,  her  name 
And  title,  “ Queen  of  Beauty,”  in  the  lists 
Cried  — and  beholding  him  so  strong,  she 
thought 

That  peradventure  he  will  fight  for  me. 

And  win  the  circlet ; therefore  flatter’d  him. 
Being  so  gracious,  that  he  wellnigh  deem’d 
His  wish  by  hers  was  echo’d  ; and  her  knights 


And  all  her  damsels  too  were  gracious  to  him. 
For  she  was  a great  lady. 

And  when  they  reach’d 
Caerleon,  ere  they  past  to  lodging,  she, 
Taking  his  hand,  “ O the  strong  hand,”  she 
said, 

“ See  ! look  at  mine  ! but  wilt  thou  fight  for 
me. 

And  win  me  this  fine  circlet,  Pelleas, 

That  I may  love  thee  ? ” 

Then  his  helpless  heart 
Leapt,  and  he  cried,  “ Ay  ! wilt  thou  if  I 
win  ? ” 

“ Ay,  that  will  I,”  she  answer’d,  and  she 
laugh’d. 

And  straitly  nipt  the  hand,  and  flung  it  from 
her ; 

Then  glanced  askew  at  those  three  knights  of 
hers. 

Till  all  her  ladies  laugh’d  along  with  her. 

**  O happy  world,”  thought  Pelleas,  “all, 
meseems. 

Are  happy  ; I the  happiest  of  them  all.” 
Nor  slept  that  night  for  pleasure  in  his  blood. 
And  green  wood-ways  and  eyes  among  the 
leaves ; 

Then  being  on  the  morrow  knighted,  sware 
To  love  one  only  ; and  as  he  came  away. 
The  men  who  met  him  rounded  on  their  heels 
And  wonder’d  after  him,  because  his  face 
Shone  like  the  countenance  of  a priest  of  old 
Against  the  flame  about  a sacrifice 
Kindled  by  fire  from  heaven  : so  glad  was  he. 

Then  Arthur  made  vast  banquets,  and 
strange  knights 

From  the  four  winds  came  in  : and  each  one 
sat, 

Tho’  served  with  choice  from  air,  land, 
stream,  and  sea. 

Oft  in  mid-banquet  measuring  with  his  eyes 
His  neighbor’s  make  and  might : and  Pelleas 
look’d 

Noble  among  the  noble,  for  he  dream’d 
His  lady  loved  him,  and  he  knew  himself 
Loved  of  the  King  : and  him  his  new-made 
knight 

Worshipt,  whose  lightest  whisper  moved  him 
more 

Than  all  the  ranged  reasons  of  the  world. 

Then  blush’d  and  brake  the  morning  of the 
jousts. 

And  this  was  call’d  “ The  Tournament  of 
Youth  ” : 

For  Arthur,  loving  his  young  knight,  with- 
held 

His  older  and  his  mightier  from  the  lists. 
That  Pelleas  might  obtain  his  lady’s  love, 
According  to  her  promise,  and  remain 
Lord  of  the  tourney.  And  Arthur  had  the 
jousts 

Down  in  the  flat  field  by  the  shore  of  Usk 
Holden  : the  gilded  parapets  were  crown’d 
With  faces, and  the  great  tower  fill’d  with  eye« 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


260 


Up  to  the  summit,  and  the  trumpets  blew. 
There  all  day  long  Sir  Pelleas  kept  the  field 
With  honor  : so  by  that  strong  hand  of  his 
The  sword  and  golden  circlet  were  achieved. 

Then  rang  the  shout  his  lady  loved  : the 
heat 

Of  pride  and  glory  fired  her  face  ; her  eye 
Sparkled  ; she  caught  the  circlet  from  his 
lance, 

And  there  before  the  people  crown’d  herself : 
So  for  the  last  time  she  was  gracious  to  him. 

Then  at  Caerleon  for  a space  — her  look 
Bright  for  all  others,  cloudier  on  her  knight  — 
Linger’d  Ettarre  : and  seeing  Pelleas  droop. 
Said  Guinevere,  “We  marvel  at  thee  much, 

0 damsel,  wearing  this  unsunny  face 

To  him  who  won  thee  glory  ! ” and  she  said, 
“ Had  ye  not  held  your  Lancelot  in  your 
. bower, 

My  Queen,  he  had  not  won.”  Whereat  the 
Queen, 

As  one  whose  foot  is  bitten  by  an  ant. 
Glanced  down  upon  her,  turn’d  and  went 
her  way. 

But  after,  when  her  damsels,  and  herself, 
And  those  three  knights  all  set  their  faces 
home. 

Sir  Pelleas  follow’d.  She  that  saw  him  cried, 
“ Damsels  — and  yet  1 should  be  shamed  to 
say  it  — 

1 cannot  bide  Sir  Baby.  Keep  him  back 
Among  yourselves.  Would  rather  that  we 

had 

Some  rough  old  knight  who  knew  the  worldly 
way, 

Albeit  grizzlier  than  a bear,  to  ride 
And  jest  with  : take  him  to  you,  keep  him  off. 
And  pamper  him  with  papmeat,  if  ye  will, 
Old  milky  fables  of  the  wolf  and  sheep, 

Such  as  the  wholesome  mothers  tell  their 
boys. 

Nay,  should  ye  try  him  with  a merry  one 
To  find  his  mettle,  good  : and  if  he  fly  us. 
Small  matter  1 let  him.”  This  her  damsels 
heard. 

And  mindful  of  her  small  and  cruel  hand. 
They,  closing  round  him  thro’  the  journey 
home,  " 

Acted  her  best,  and  always  from  her  side 
Restrain’d  him  with  all  manner  of  device, 

So  that  he  could  not  come  to  speech  with  her. 
And  when  she  gain’d  her  castle,  upsprang  the 
bridge, 

Down  rang  the  grate  of  iron  thro’  the  groove, 
And  he  was  left  alone  in  open  field. 

” These  be  the  ways  of  ladies,”  Pelleas 
thought, 

” To  those  who  love  them,  trials  of  our  faith. 
Yea,  let  her  prove  me  to  the  uttermost. 

For  loyal  to  the  uttermost  am  I.” 

So  made  his  moan ; and,  darkness  falling, 
sought 

A priory  not  far  off,  there  lodged,  but  rose 
With  morning  every  day,  and  moist  or  dry 


Full-arm’d  upon  his  charger  all  day  long 
Sat  by  the  walls,  and  no  one  open’d  to  him. 

And  this  persistence  turn’d  her  scorn  to 
wrath. 

Then  calling  her  three  knights,  she  charged 
them,  “ Out ! 

And  drive  him  from  the  walls.”  And  out  they 
came. 

But  Pelleas  overthrew'  them  as  they  dash’d 
Against  him  one  by  one  ; and  these  return’d, 
But  still  he  kept  his  watch  beneath  the.  wall. 

Thereon  her  wrath  became  a hate:  and  once, 
A week  beyond,  w'hile  walking  on  the  walls 
With  her  three  knights,  she  pointed  down- 
ward, “ Look, 

He  haunts  me  — • I cannot  breathe  — be- 
sieges me ; 

Down  ! strike  him  I put  my  hate  into  your 
strokes. 

And  drive  him  from  my  walls.”  And  down 
they  went. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them  one  by  one ; 
And  from  the  tower  above  him  cried  Ettarre^ 
“ Bind  him,  and  bring  him  in.” 

He  heard  her  voice  ; 
Then  let  the  strong  hand,  which  had  over- 
thrown 

Her  minion-knights,  by  those  he  overthrew 
Be  bounden  straight,  and  so  they  brought 
him  in. 

Then  when  he  came  before  Ettarre,  the 
sight 

Of  her  rich  beauty  made  him  at  one  glance 
More  bondsman  in  hisheartthan  in  hisbonds. 
Yet  with  good  cheer  he  spake,  “ Behold  me, 
Lady, 

A prisoner,  and  the  vassal  of  thy  will ; 

And  if  thou  keep  me  in  thy  donjon  here. 
Content  am  I so  that  I see  thy  face 
But  once  a day  : for  I have  swoni  my  vows. 
And  thou  hast  given  thy  promise,  and  I know 
That  all  tnese  pains  are  trials  of  my  faith. 
And  that  thyself  when  thou  hast  seen  me 
strain’d 

And  sifted  to  the  utmost,  wilt  at  length 
Yield  me  thy  love  and  know  me  for  thy 
knight.” 

Then  she  began  to  rail  so  bitterly, 

With  all  her  damsels,  he  was  stricken  mute ; 
But  when  she  mock’d  his  vows  and  the  great 
King, 

Lighted  on  words  : “ For  pity  of  thine  own 
self. 

Peace,  Lady,  peace:  is  he  not  thine  and 
mine?” 

“ Thou  fool,”  she  said,  “ I never  heard  hU 
voice 

But  long’d  to  break  away.  Unbind  him  now, 
And  thrust  him  out  of  doors  : for  save  he  be 
Fool  to  the  midmost  marrow  of  his  bones. 
He  will  return  no  more.”  And  those,  her 
three. 

Laugh’d,  and  unbound,  and  thrust  him  from 
the  gate. 


PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE.  261 


And  after  this,  a week  beyond,  again 
She  call’d  them,  saying,  “ There  he  watches 
yet, 

There  like  a dog  before  his  master’s  door  ! 
Kick’d,  he  returns  : do  ye  not  hate  him,  ye  ? 
Ye  know  yourselves : how  can  ye  bide  at 
peace. 

Affronted  with  his  fulsome  innocence  ? 

Are  ye  but  creatures  of  the  board  and  bed. 
No  men  to  strike  ? fall  on  him  all  at  once, 
And  if  ye  slay  him  I reck  not : if  ye  fail. 
Give  ye  the  slave  mine  order  to  be  bound. 
Bind  him  as  heretofore,  and  bring  him  in  : 
It  may  be  ye  shall  slay  him  in  his  bonds.” 

She  spake : and  at  her  will  they  couch’d 
their  spears. 

Three  against  one  : and  Gawain  passing  by. 
Bound  upon  solitary  adventure,  saw 
Low  down  beneath  the  shadow  of  those 
towers 

A villany,  three  to  one  : and  thro’  his  heart 
The  fire  of  honor  and  all  noble  deeds 
Flash’d,  and  he  call’d,  “ I strike  upon  thy 
side  — 

The  caitiffs!”  “ Nay,”  said  Pelleas,  “but 
forbear ; 

He  needs  no  aid  who  doth  his  lady’s  will.” 

So  Gawain,  looking  at  the  villany  done. 
Forebore,  but  in  his  heat  and  eagerness 
Trembled  and  quiver’d,  as  the  dog,  withheld 
A moment  from  the  vermin  that  he  sees 
Before  him,  shivers,  ere  he  springs  and  kills. 

And  Pelleas  overthrew  them,  one  to  three  ; 
And  they  rose  up,  and  bound,  and  brought 
him  in. 

Then  first  her  anger,  leaving  Pelleas,  burn’d 
Full  on  her  knights  in  many  an  evil  name 
Of  craven,  weakling,  and  thrice-beaten 
hound : 

“ Yet,  take  him,  ye  that  scarce  are  fit  to  touch, 
Far  less  to  bind,  your  victor,  and  thrust  him 
out, 

And  let  who  will  release  him  from  his  bonds. 
And  if  he  comes  again  ” — there  she  brake 
short ; 

And  Pelleas  answer’d,  “ Lady,  for  indeed 
I loved  you  and  I deem’d  you  beautiful, 

I cannot  brook  to  see  your  beauty  marr’d 
Thro’  evil  spite  : and  if  ye  love  me  not, 

I cannot  bear  to  dream  you  so  forsworn  ; 

I had  liefer  ye  were  worthy  of  my  love, 
Than  to  be  loved  again  of  you  — farewell  ; 
And  tho’  ye  kill  my  hope,  not  yet  my  love. 
Vex  not  yourself : ye  will  not  see  me  more.” 

While  thus  he  spake,  she  gazed  upon  the 
man 

Of  princely  bearing,  tho’  in  bonds,  and 
thought, 

“ Why  have  I push’d  him  from  me?  this  man 
loves. 

If  love  there  be  : yet  him  I loved  not.  Why  ? 
I deem’d  him  fool?  yea,  so?  or  that  in  him 
A something  — was  it  nobler  than  myself?  — 
Seem’d  my  reproach  ? He  is  not  of  my  kind. 


He  could  not  love  me,  did  he  know  me  well. 
Nay,  let  him  go  — and  quickly.”  And  her 
knights 

Laugh’d  not,  but  thrust  him  bounden  out  of 
door. 

Forth  sprang  Gawain,  and  loosed  him  from 
his  bonds, 

And  flung  them  o’er  the  walls;  and  afterward 
Shaking  his  hands,  as  from  a lazar’s  rag, 

“ Faith  of  my  body,”  he  said,  “ and  art 
thou  not  — 

Yea  thou  art  he,  whom  late  our  Arthur  made 
Knight  of  his  table  : yea  and  he  that  won 
The  circlet  ? wherefore  hast  thou  so  defamed 
Thy  brotherhood  in  me  and  all  the  rest. 

As  let  these  caitiffs  on  thee  work  their  will?” 

And  Pelleas  answer’d,  “ O,  their  wills  are 
hers 

For  whom  I won  the  circlet ; and  mine,  hers. 
Thus  to  be  bounden,  so  to  see  her  face, 
Marr’d  tho’  it  be  with  spite  and  mockery 
now. 

Other  than  when  I found  her  in  the  woods  ; 
And  tho’  she  hath  me  bounden  but  in  spite. 
And  all  to  flout  me,  when  they  bring  me  in, 
Let  me  be  bounden,  I shall  see  her  face ; 
Else  must  I die  thro’  mine  unhappiness.” 

And  Gawain  answer’d  kindly  tho’  in  scorn, 
“ Why,  let  my  lady  bind  me  if  she  will. 

And  let  my  lady  beat  me  if  she  will : 

But  an  she  send  her  delegate  to  thrall 
These  fighting  hands  of  mine  — Christ  kill 
me  then 

But  I will  slice  him  handless  by  the  wrist. 
And  let  my  lady  sear  the  stump  for  him. 
Howl  as  he  may.  But  hold  me  for  your  friend: 
Come,  ye  know  nothing  : here  I pledge  my 
troth. 

Yea,  by  the  honor  of  the  Table  Round, 

I will  be  leal  to  thee  and  work  thy  work, 
And  tame  thy  jailing  princess  to  thine  hand. 
Lend  me  thine  horse  and  arms,  and  I will  say 
That  I have  slain  thee.  She  will  let  me  in 
To  hear  the  manner  of  thy  fight  and  fall ; 
Then,  when  I come  within  her  counsels,  then 
From  prime  to  vespers  will  I chant  thy  praise 
As  prowest  knight  and  truest  lover,  more 
Than  any  have  sung  thee  living,  till  she  long 
To  have  thee  back  in  lusty  life  again. 

Not  to  be  bound,  save  by  white  bonds  and 
warm. 

Dearer  than  freedom.  Wherefore  now  thy 
horse 

And  armor  : let  me  go  : be  comforted  : 

Give  me  three  days  to  melt  her  fancy,  and 
hope 

The  third  night  hence  will  bring  thee  news 
of  gold  ” 

Then  Pelleas  lent  his  horse  and  all  his  arms, 
Saving  the  goodly  sword,  his  prize,  and  took 
Gawain’s,  and  said,  “Betray  me  not,  but 
help  — 

Art  thou  not  he  whom  men  call  light-of- 
love?  ” 


262  PEL  LEAS  A 2 

“Ay,”  said  Gawain,  “for  women  be  so 
light.” 

Then  bounded  forward  to  the  castle  walls, 
And  raised  a bugle  hanging  from  his  neck. 
And  winded  it,  and  that  so  musically 

That  all  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the  wall 
Rang  out  like  hollow  woods  at  hunting-tide. 

Up  ran  a score  of  damsels  to  the  tower ; 

“ Avaunt,”  they  cried,  “ our  lady  loves  thee 
not.” 

But  Gawain  lifting  up  his  visor  said, 

“ Gawain  am  I,  Gawain  of  Arthur’s  court. 
And  I have  slain  this  Pelieas  whom  ye  hate  : 
Behold  his  horse  and  armor.  Open  gate. 
And  I will  make  you  merry.” 

And  down  they  ran, 
Her  datnsels,  crying  to  their  lady,  “ Lo  ! 
Pelieas  is  dead  — he  told  us,  he  that  hath 
His  horse  and  armor  : will  ye  let  him  in  ? 

He  slew  him  ! Gawain,  Gawain  of  the  court, 
Sir  Gawain  — there  he  w-aits  below  the  wall, 
Blowinghis  bugle  as  who  shouldsay  him  nay.  ” 

And  so,  leave  given,  straighten  thro’  open 
door 

Rode  Gawain,  whomshe  greeted  courteously. 
“ Dead,  is  it  so  ? ” she  ask’d.  “ Ay,  ay,”  said 
he, 

‘‘And  oft  in  dying  cried  upon  your  name.” 

“ Pity  on  him,”  she  answer’d,  “ a good 
knight. 

But  never  let  me  bide  one  hour  at  peace.” 
“Ay,”  thought  Gawain,  “and  ye  be  fair 
enow : 

But  I to  your  dead  man  have  given  my  troth. 
That  whom  ye  loathe  him  will  I make  you 
love.” 

So  those  three  days,  aimless  about  the  land, 
Lost  in  a doubt,  Pelieas  wandering 

Waited,  Until  the  third  night  brought  amoon, 
With  promise  of  large  light  on 'woods  and 
ways. 

The  night  w'as  hot ; he  could  not  rest,  but 
rode 

Ere  midnight  to  her  walls,  and  bound  his 
horse 

Hard  by  the  gates.  Wide  open  were  the  gates, 
And  no  watch  kept ; and  in  thro’  these  he 
past. 

And  heard  but  his  own  steps,  and  his  own 
heart 

Beating,  for  nothing  moved  but  his  own  self, 
And  his  own  shadow-.  Then  he  crost  the  court. 
And  saw  the  postern  portal  also  wide 
Yawning  ; and  up  a slope  of  garden,  all 

Of  roses  w hite  and  red,  and  wild  ones  mixt 
And  overgrowing  them,  went  on,  and  found. 
Here  too,  all  hush’d  below  the  mellow  moon. 
Save  that  one  rivulet  from  a tiny  cave 

Came  lightening  dow-nward,  and  so  spilt  itself 
Among  the  roses,  and  w-as  lost  again. 

Then  w-as  he  ware  that  white  pavilions  rose, 
Three  from  the  bushes,  gilden-peakt ; in  one. 

VD  ETTA  REE. 

Red  a'';er  revel,  droned  her  lurdan  knights 
Slumbering,  and  their  three  squires  across 
their  feet : 

In  one,  their  malice  on  the  placid  lip 

F roz’n  by  sweet  sleep,  four  of  her  damsels  lay : 
And  in  the  third,  the  circlet  of  the  jousts 
Bound  on  herbrow,  were  Gawain  and  Ettarre. 

Back,  as  a hand  that  pushes  thro’  the  leaf 
To  find  a nest  and  feels  a snake,  he  drew-  : 
Back,  as  a coward  slinks  from  what  he  fears 
To  cope  with,  or  a traitor  proven,  or  hound 
Beaten,  did  Pelieas  in  an  utter  shame 

Creep  with  his  shadow-  thro’  the  court  again. 
Fingering  at  his  sword-handle  until  he  stood 
There  on  the  castle- bridge  once  more,  and 
thought, 

“ I will  go  back,  and  slay  them  where  they 
lie.” 

And  so  went  back,  and  seeing  them  yet  in 
sleep 

Said,  Ye,  that  so  dishallow  the  holy  sleep. 
Your  sleep  is  death,”  and  drew  the  sword, 
and  thought, 

“What!  slay  a sleeping  knight?  the  King 
hath  bound 

And  sworn  me  to  this  brotherhood  ” ; again, 
“Alas  that  ever  a knight  should  be  so  false.” 
Then  turn’d,  and  so  return’d,  and  groaning 
laid 

The  naked  sword  athwart  theirnaked  throats, 
There  left  it,  and  them  sleeping  ; and  she  lay. 
The  circlet  of  the  tourney  round  her  brows. 
And  the  sword  of  the  tourney  across  her 
throat. 

And  forth  he  past,  and  mounting  on  his 
horse 

Stared  at  her  towers  that,  larger  than  them- 
selves 

In  their  own  darkness,  throng’d  into  the 
moon. 

Then  crush’d  the  saddle  with  his  thighs,  and 
clench’d 

His  hands,  and  madden’d  with  himself  and 
moan’d ; 

“Would  they  have  risen  against  me  in 
their  blood 

At  the  last  day  ? I might  have  answer’d  them 
Even  before  high  God.  O towers  so  strong. 

So  solid,  w'ould  that  even  while  I gaze 

The  crack  of  earthquake  shivering  to  your 
base 

Split  you,  and  Hell  burst  up  your  harlot  roofs 
Bellowing,  and  chair’d  you  thro’  and  thro’ 
within. 

Black  as  the  harlot’s  heart  — hollow  as  a 
skull ! 

Let  the  fierce  east  scream  thro’  your  eyelet- 
holes. 

And  w'hirl  the  dust  of  harlots  round  and 
round 

In  dung  and  nettles!  hiss,  snake — I saw 
him  there  — 

Let  the  fox  bark,  let  the  w-olf  yell.  Who  yells 
Here  in  the  still  sweet  summer  night,  but  I — 

PELLEAS  AND  ETTARRE, 


263 


I,  the  poor  Pelleas  whom  she  call’d  her 
fool  ? 

Fool,  beast  — he,  she,  or  I ? myself  most 
fool  ; 

Beast  too,  as  lacking  human  wit  — disgraced, 
Dishonor’d  all  for  trial  of  true  love  — 

Love? — we  be  all  alike  : only  the  king 
Hath  made  us  fools  and  liars.  O noble  vows  ! 

0 great  and  sane  and  simple  race  of  brutes 
That  own  no  lust  because  they  have  no  law  ! 
For  why  should  I have  loved  her  to  my 

shame  ? 

1 loathe  her,  as  I loved  her  to  my  shame. 

I never  loved  her,  I but  lusted  for  her  — 
Away — ” 

He  dash’d  the  rowel  into  his  horse, 
And  bounded  forth  and  vanish’d  thro’  the 
night. 

• Then  she,  that  felt  the  cold  touch  on  her 
throat, 

^.waking  knew  the  sword,  and  turn’d  herself 
I'o  Gaw'ain  : “ Liar,  for  thou  hast  not  slain 
"^his  Pelleas  * here  he  stood  and  might  have 
slain 

Me  and  thyself.’  And  he  that  tells  the  tale 
^ays  that  her  ever-veering  fancy  turn’d 
I'o  Pelleas,  as  the  one  true  knight  on  earth. 
And  only  lover  ; and  thro’  her  love  her  life 
Wasted  and  pined,  desiring  him  in  vain. 

But  he  by  wild  and  way,  for  half  the  night. 
And  over  hard  and  soft,  striking  the  sod 
From  out  the  soft,  the  spark  from  off  the  hard. 
Rode  till  the  star  above  the  wakening  sun. 
Beside  that  tower  where  Percivale  was 
cowl’d, 

Glanced  from  the  rosy  forehead  of  the  dawn. 
For. so  the  words  were  flash’d  into  his  heart 
He  knew  not  w'hence  or  wherefore:  “O 
sweet  star. 

Pure  on  the  virgin  forehead  of  the  dawn.” 
And  there  he  would  have  wept,  but  felt  his 
eyes 

Harder  and  drier  than  a fountain  bed 
In  summer  : thither  came  the  village  girls 
And  linger’d  talking,  and  they  come  no  more 
Till  the  sweet  heavens  have  fill’d  it  from  the 
heights 

Again  with  living-waters  in  the  change 
Of  seasons  : hard  his  eyes  ; harder  his  heart 
Seem  ’d  ; but  so  weary  were  his  limbs,  that  he. 
Gasping,  “ Of  Arthur’s  hall  am  I,  but  here. 
Here  let  me  rest  and  die,  ” cast  himself  down, 
And  gulf’d  his  griefs  in  inmost  sleep  ; so  lay, 
Till  shaken  by  a dream,  that  Gawain  fired 
The  hall  of  Merlin,  and  the  morning  star 
Reel’d  in  the  smoke,  brake  into  flame,  and 
fell. 

He  woke,  and  being  ware  of  some  one  nigh, 
Sent  hands  upon  him,  as  to  .tear  him,  crying 
“ False  ! and  I held  thee  pure  as  Guinevere.” 

But  Percivale  stood  near  him  and  replied, 
“ Am  I but  false  as  Guinevere  is  pure  ? 

Or  art  thou  mazed  with  dreams  ? or  being  one 


Of  our  free-spoken  Table  hast  not  heard 
That  Lancelot  ” — there  he  check’d  himself 
and  paused. 

Then  fared  it  with  Sir  Pelleas  as  with  one 
Who  gets  a wound  in  battle,  and  the  sword 
That  made  it  plunges  thro’  the  wound  again. 
And  pricks  it  deeper  ; and  he  shrank  and 
wail’d, 

“ Is  the  Queen  false  ? ” and  Percivale  was 
mule. 

“ Have  any  of  our  Round  Table  held  their 
vows  ? ” 

And  Percivale  made  answer  not  a word. 

“Is  the  king  true?”  “The  king!”  said 
Percivale. 

“Why  then  let  men  couple  at  once  with 
wolves. 

What  ! art  thou  mad?” 

But  Pelleas,  leaping  up. 

Ran  thro’  the  doors  and  vaulted  on  his  horse 
And  fled  : small  pity  upon  his  horse  had  he, 

Or  on  himself,  or  any,  and  when  he  met 
A cripple  ; one  that  held  a hand  for  alms  — 
Hunch’d  as  he  was,  and  like  an  old  dwarf- 
elm 

That  turns  its  back  on  the  salt  blast,  the  boy 
Paused  not  but  overrode  him,  shouting, 

“ False, 

And  false  with  Gawain!”  and  so  left  him 
bruised 

And  batter’d,  and  fled  on,  and  hill  and 
wood 

Went  ever  streaming  by  him  till  the  gloom. 
That  follows  on  the  turning  of  the  world. 
Darken’d  the  common  path  : he  twitch’d  ihe 
reins. 

And  made  his  beast  that  better  knew  it, 
swerve 

Now  off  it  and  now  on  ; but  when  he  saw 
High  up  in  heaven  the  hall  that  Merlin  built. 
Blackening  against  the  dead-green  stripes  i 
of  Even, 

“ Black  nest  of  rats,”  he  groan’d,  “ye  build 
too  high.” 

Not  long  thereafter  from  the  city  gates 
Issued  Sir  Lancelot  riding  airily. 

Warm  with  a gracious  parting  from  the 
Queen, 

Peace  at  his  heart,  and  gazing  at  a star 
And  marvelling  what  it  was  : on  v\hom  the 
boy. 

Across  the  silent  seeded  meadow-grass 
Borne,  clash’d : and  Lancelot,  saying, 

“ What  name  hast  thou 
That  ridest  here  so  blindly  and  so  hard  ? ” 

“ I have  no  name,”  he  shouted,  “ a scourge 
am  I, 

To  lash  the  treasons  of  the  Table  Round.” 
“Yea,  but  thy  name?”  “I  have  many 
names,”  he  cried  ; 

“ I am  wrath  and  shame  and  hate  and  evil 
fame. 

And  like  a poisonous  wind  I pass  to  blast 
And  blaze  the  crime  of  Lancelot  and  the 
Queen.” 

f 


J 

' 264  THE  PASSING 

“ First  over  me,”  said  Lancelot,  “ shalt 
thou  pass.” 

” Fight,  therefore,”  yell’d  the  other,  and 
either  knight 

Drew  back  a space,  and  when  they  closed, 
at  once 

The  weary  steed  of  Pelleas  floundering  flung 
His  rider,  who  called  out  from  the  dark  field, 

” Thou  art  false  as  Hell ; slay  me  ; I have 
no  sword.’' 

Then  Lancelot,  ” Yea,  between  thy  lips  — 
and  sharp  ; 

But  here  will  I disedge  it  by  thy  death.” 

“ Slay  then,”  he  shriek’d,  “my  will  is  to  be 
i slain.” 

And  Lancelot,  with  his  heel  upon  the  fall’n. 
Rolling  his  eyes,  a moment  stood,  then 
spake : 

“ Rise,  weakling ; I am  Lancelot ; say  thy 
say.” 

And  Lancelot  slowly  rode  his  war-horse 
back 

To  Camelot,  and  Sir  Pelleas  in  brief  while 
Caught  his  unbroken  limbs  from  the  dark 
field. 

And  follow’d  to  the  city.  It  chanced  that 
both 

Brake  into  hall  together,  worn  and  pale. 
There  with  her  knights  and  dames  was 
Guinevere. 

Full  wonderingly  she  gazed  on  Lancelot 
So  soon  return’d,  and  then  on  Pelleas, 

Him  who  had  not  greeted  her,  but  cast  him- 
self 

Dow’n  on  a bench,  hard-breathing.  “ Have 
ye  fought?” 

She  ask’d  of  Lancelot.  ‘‘Ay,  my  Queen,” 
he  said. 

‘‘And  thou  hast  overthrown  him?”  ‘‘Ay, 
my  Queen.” 

Then  she,  turning  to  Pelleas,  “ O young 
knight, 

Hath  the  great  heart  of  knighthood  in  thee 
fail’d 

So  far  thou  canst  not  bide,  unfrowardly, 

A fall  from  him  ?”  Then,  for  he  answer’d  not, 

“ Or  hast  thou  other  griefs  ? If  I,  the  Queen, 
May  help  them,  loose  thy  tongue,  and  let  me 
know.” 

But  Pelleas  lifted  up  an  eye  so  fierce 
She  quail’d  ; and  he,  hissing  “ 1 have  no 
sword,” 

Sprang  from  the  door  into  the  dark.  The 
Queen 

Look’d  hard  upon  her  lover,  he  on  her  ; 

And  each  foresaw  the  dolorous  day  to  be  : 
And  all  talk  died,  as  in  a grove  all  song 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  some  bird  of  prey. 
Then  a long  silence  came  upon  the  hall. 

And  Modred  thought,  “ The  time  is  hard  at 
hand.” 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

That  story  which  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
First  made  and  latest  left  of  all  the  knights, 


OF  ARTHUR. 

Told,  when  the  man  was  no  more  than  a voice 
In  the  white  winter  of  his  age,  to  those 
With  whom  he  dwelt,  new  faces,  other  minds. 

Before  that  last  weird  battle  in  the  west 
There  came  on  Arthur  sleeping,  Gawain 
kill’d 

In  Lancelot’s  war,  the  ghost  of  Gawain  blown 
Along  a wandering  wind,  and  past  his  ear 
Went  shrilling,  “ Hollow,  hollow'  all  delight  ! 
Hail,  king  ! to-morrow  thou  shalt  pass  away. 
Farewell  ! there  is  an  isle  of  rest  for  thee. 
And  I am  blow'n  along  a wandering  wind, 
And  hollow,  hollow',  hollow  all  delight.” 
And  fainter  onward  like  wild  birds  that 
change 

Their  season  in  the  night  and  wail  their  way 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  down  the  long  wind  the 
dream 

Shrill’d ; but  in  going  mingled  with  dim 
cries 

Far  in  the  moonlit  haze  among  the  hills, 

As  of  some  lonely  city  sack’d  by  night. 
When  all  is  lost,  and  wife  and  child  with  w'ail 
Pass  to  new  lords  ; and  Arthur  woke  and 
call’d, 

“ Who  spake  ? A dream.  O light  upon  the 
w'ind. 

Thine,  Gaw'ain,  was  the  voice  — are  these 
dim  cries 

Thine  ? or  doth  all  that  haunts  the  waste  and 
wild 

Mourn,  knowing  it  will  go  along  w-ith  me  ? ” 

This  heard  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  and 
spake  : 

“ O me,  my  king,  let  pass  whatever  will. 
Elves,  and  the  harmless  glamour  of  the  field ; 
But  in  their  stead  thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places  like  a golden  cloud 
Forever  : but  as  yet  thou  shalt  not  pass. 
Light  was  Gawain  in  life,  and  light  in  death 
Is  Gawain,  for  the  ghost  is  as  the  man  ; 

And  care  not  thou  for  dreams  from  him,  but 
rise  — 

I hear  the  steps  of  Modred  in  the  west. 

And  with  him  many  of  thy  people,  and  knights 
Once  thine,  whom  thou  hast  loved,  but  gross- 
er grown 

Than  heathen,  spitting  at  their  vows  and  thee. 
Right  well  in  heart  they  know  thee  for  the 
King. 

Arise,  go  forth  and  conquer  as  of  old.” 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
“ Far  other  is  this  battle  in  the  w'est 
Whereto  we  move,  than  when  w'e  strove  in 
youth. 

And  thrust  the  heathen  from  the  Roman 
wall. 

And  shook  him  thro’  the  north.  Ill  doom  is 
mine 

To  war  against  my  people  and  my  knights. 
The  king  who  fights  his  people  fights  himself. 
And  they  my  knights,  who  loved  me  once, 
the  stroke 

That  strikes  them  dead  is  as  my  death  to  me. 
Yet  let  us  hence,  and  find  or  feel  a way 


THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR.  265 


Thro’  this  blind  haze,  which  ever  since  I saw 
One  lying  in  the  dust  at  Almesbury, 

Hath  folded  in  the  passes  of  the  world.” 

Then  rose  the  King  and  moved  his  host  by 
night, 

And  ever  push’d  Sir  Modred,  league  by 
league, 

Back  to  the  sunset  bound  of  Lyonnesse  — 

A land  of  old  upheaven  from  the  abyss 
By  fire,  to  sink  into  the  abyss  again  ; 

Where  fragments  of  forgotten  peoples  dwelt, 
And  the  long  mountains  ended  in  a coast 
Of  ever-shifting  sand,  and  far  away 
The  phantom  circle  of  a moaning  sea. 

There  the  pursuer  could  pursue  no  more. 
And  he  that  fled  no  further  fly  the  King  ; 
And  there,  that  day  when  the  great  light  of 
heaven 

Earn’d  at  his  lowest  in  the  rolling  year, 

On  the  ^aste  sand  by  the  waste  sea  they 
closed. 

Nor  ever  yet  had  Arthur  fought  a fight 
Like  this  last,  dim,  weird  battle  of  the  west. 

A deathwhite  mist  slept  over  sand  and  sea  : 
Whereof  the  chill,  to  him  who  breathed  it, 
drew 

Down  with  his  blood,  till  all  his  heart  was 
cold 

With  formless  fear : and  ev’n  on  Arthur  fell 
Confusion,  since  he  saw  not  whom  he  fought. 
For  friend  and  foe  were  shadows  in  the 
mist. 

And  friend  slew  friend  not  knowing  whom 
he  slew ; 

And  some  had  visions  out  of  golden  youth. 
And  some  beheld  the  faces  of  old  ghosts 
Look  in  upon  the  battle  ; and  in  the  mist 
Was  many  a noble  deed,  many  a base. 

And  chance  and  craft  and  strength  in  single 
fights. 

And  ever  and  anon  with  host  to  host 
Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard 
mail  hewn. 

Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands, 
the  crash 

Of  battleaxes  on  shatter’d  helms,  and  shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Looked  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the 
mist  ; 

And  shouts  of  heathen  and  the  traitor  knights. 
Oaths,  insult,  filth,  and  monstrous  blasphe- 
mies. 

Sweat,  writhings,  anguish,  laboring  of  the 
lungs 

In  that  close  mist,  and  cryings  for  the  light, 
Moans  of  the  dying,  and  voices  of  the  dead. 

Last,  as  by  some  one  death-bed  after  wail 
Of  suffering,  silence  follows,  or  thro’  death 
Or  deathlike  swoon,  thus  over  all  that  shore. 
Save  for  some  whisper  of  the  seething  seas, 
A dead  hush-  fell ; but  when  the  dolorous 
day 

Grew  drearier  toward  twilight  falling,  came 
A bitter  wind,  clear  from  the  North,  and 
blew 

The  mist  aside,  and  with  that  wind  the  tide  | 


Rose,  and  the  pale  king  glanced  across  the 
field 

Of  battle  : but  no  man  was  moving  there; 
Nor  any  cry  of  Christian  heard  thereon. 

Nor  yet  of  heathen ; only  the  wan  wave 
Brake  in  among  dead  faces,  to  and  fro 
Swaying  the  helpless  hands,  and  up  and  down 
Tumbling  the  hollow  helmets,  of  the  fallen. 
And  shiver’d  brands  that  once  had  fought 
with  Rome, 

And  rolling  far  along  the  gloomy  shores 
The  voice  of  days  of  old  and  days  to  be. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere, 
And  whiter  than  the  mist  that  all  day  long 
Had  held  the  field  of  battle  was  the  King  : 

“ Hearest  thou  this  great  voice  that 
shakes  the  world. 

And  wastes  the  narrow  realm  whereon  we 
move. 

And  beats  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 

My  dead,  as  tho’  they  had  notdied  for  me  ? — 
O Bedivere,  for  on  my  heart  hath  fall’n 
Confusion,  till  I know  not  what  I am, 

Nor  whence  I am,  nor  whether  I be  king. 
Behold,  I seem  but  king  among  the  dead.” 

Then  spake  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : “ My 
King, 

King  everywhere  ! and  so  the  dead  have 
kings. 

There  also  will  I worship  thee  as  king. 

Yet  still  thy  life  is  whole,  and  still  I live 
Who  love  thee  ; but  who  hates  thee,  he  that 
brought 

The  heathen  back  among  us,  yonder  stands, 
Modred,  unharm’d,  the  traitor  of  thine 
house.” 

Then  spake  the  King : “ My  house  hath 
been  my  doom. 

But  call  not  thou  this  traitor  of  my  house 
Who  hath  but  dwelt  beneath  one  roofwithme. 
My  house  are  rather  they  who  sware  my 
vows, 

Yea,  even  while  they  brake  them,  own’d  me 
king. 

And  well  for  thee,  saying  in  my  dark  hour, 
When  all  the  purport  of  my  throne  hath  fail’d. 
That  quick  or  dead  thou  boldest  me  for  king. 
King  am  I,  whatsoever  be  their  cry  ; 

And  one  last  act  of  kinghood  shalt  thou  see 
Yet,  ere  I pass.”  And  uttering  this  the  king 
Made  at  the  man  : then  Modred  smote  his 
liege 

Hard  on  that  helm,  which  many  a heathen 
sword 

Had  beaten  thin  ; while  Arthur  at  one  blow, 
Striking  the  last  stroke  with  Excalibur, 

Slew  him,  and  all  but  slain  himself,  he  fell. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll’d 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea  ; 
Until  King  Arthur’s  Table,  man  by  man. 
Had  fall’n  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord. 
King  Arthur.  Then,  because  his  wound  was 
deep, 


L. 

266  THE  PASSING 

The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 

And  bore  him  to  a chapel  nigh  the  field, 

A broken  chancel  with  a broken  cross. 

That  stood  on  a dark  strait  of  barren  land  : 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 

Lay  a great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
“ The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 

The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.  Such  a 
sleep 

They  sleep — the  men  I loved.  I think  that 
we 

Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time. 

Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

I perish  by  this  people  which  I made,  — 
Tho’  Merlin  sware  that  I should  come  again 
To  rule  once  moi^  ; but  let  what  will  be,  be. 

I am  so  deeply  smitten  thro’  the  helm 

That  without  help  I cannot  last  till  morn. 
Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  : for  thou  rememberest 
how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
Holding  the  sword  — and  how  I row’d  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a king  ; 
And,  wheresoever  I am  sung  or  told 

In  after  time,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 

But  now  delay  not : take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere : 
Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word.” 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus. 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  thro’  the  helm  — 
A little  thing  may  harm  a wounded  man  ; 

Yet  I thy  best  will  all  perform  at  full. 

Watch  what  I see,  and  lightly  bring  thee 
word.” 

So  saying,  from  the  ruin’d  shrine  he  stept. 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men. 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.  He,  step- 
ping down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o’er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a long  cloud,  ran 
forth 

And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond 
sparks. 

Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.  He  gazed  so  long 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind. 

In  act  to  throw  : but  at  the  last  it  seem’d 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  conceal’d 

OF  ARTHUR, 

There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags. 

That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 

So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 

“ Hast  thou  perform’d  my  mission  which  I 
gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen?  or  what  has 
heard?  ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere : 

“ I heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds. 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and 
pale  : 

“Thouhast betray’d  thynature  and  thyname. 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseem’d 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a noble  knight : 

For  surer  sign  had  follow  d,  either  hand. 

Or  voice,  or  else  a motion  of  the  mere. 

This  is  a shameful  thing  for  men  fo  lie. 

Yet  now,  I charge  thee,  quickly  go  again. 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 

1 bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me 
word.” 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere. 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fix’d  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 

How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he 
smote 

His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 

“ And  if  indeed  I cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many 
men. 

What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were 
done  ? 

What  harm,  undone  ? deep  harm  to  disobey. 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

The  King  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he 
does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  after  time,  but  empty  breath 

And  rumors  of  a doubt  ? but  were  this  kept. 
Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty 
kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a joust  of  arms. 
Saying,  ‘ King  Arthur’s  sword,  Excalibur, 
Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 
Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 
Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.’ 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after- 
time 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were 
lost.” 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit. 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 

And  so  .strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded 
King. 

1 

“An  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite.” 


Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heav- 
ily : 

**  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ? or  what  hast 
heard?” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  ; 

I heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag, 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds.” 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in 
wrath : 

“ Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  ! Woe  is  me  ! 
Authority  forgets  a dying  king,  ^ 

Laid  widow’d  of  the  power  in  his  eye 
That  bow’d  the  will.  I see  thee  what  thou 
art. 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 
In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 

Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious 
hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a girl 
Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a man  may  fail  in  duty  twice. 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee 
hence  : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands.” 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran. 
And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly, 
plunged 

Among  the  bulrush -beds,  and  clutch’d  the 
sword. 

And  strongly  wheel’d  and  threw  it.  The 
great  brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon. 
And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirl’d  in 
an  arch. 

Shot  like  a streamer  of  the  northern  mom. 
Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 
By  night,  w'ith  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 

So  flash’d  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur: 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 
And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish’d 
him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker 
breath  : 

Now  see  I by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out : what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or 
seen  ? ” 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
**  Sir  King,  I closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the 
gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I never  saw. 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I die. 
Not  tho’  I live  three  lives  of  mortal  men. 

So  great  a miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I flung  him,  wheeling 
him  ; 

But  when  I look’d  again,  behold  an  arm. 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 


That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandish’d 
him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the 
mere.” 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing 
hard  : 

“ My  end  draws  nigh  ; ’t  is  time  that  I were 
gone. 

Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my 
weight, 

And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ; yet  I fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I shall  die.” 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 

And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 
As  in  a picture.  Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  thro’  his  tears, 

And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not 
words ; 

Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one 
knee. 

O’er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid 
hands. 

And  rising  bore  him  thro’  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walk’d.  King  Arthur  panted 
hard. 

Like  one  that  feels  a nightmare  on  his  bed 
When  all  the  house  is  mute.  So  sigh’d  the 
King, 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  “ Quick, 
quick  ! 

I fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I shall  die.” 

But  the  other  swiftly  strooe  from  ridge  to 
ridge. 

Clothed  w'ith  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he 
walk’d. 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a cry 
Before.  His  own  thought  drove  him  li^.e  a 
goad. 

Dry  clash’d  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasrns,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clang’d  round  him,  as  he 
based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  w'ith  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 
And  on  a sudden,  lo  ! the  level  lake. 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a dusky 
barge. 

Dark  as  a funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 
Beneath  them  ; and  descending  they  were 
ware 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  wdth  stately 
forms, 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a dream  — 
by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  : and  from 
them  rose 

A cry  that  shiver’d  to  the  tingling  stars, 
And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 
Of  lamentation,  like  a wind  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a waste  land,  where  noone  comes 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 


268  the  passing  OF  ARTHUR, 


Then  murmur’d  Arthur,  “ Place  me  in  the 
barge  ” ; 

So  to  the  barge  they  came.  There  those 
three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and 
wept. 

But  she,  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap. 

And  loosed  the  shatter’d  casque,  and  chafed 
his  hands, 

And  call’d  him  by  his  name,  complaining 
loud. 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 
Striped  with  dark  blood  ; for  all  his  face  was 
white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the, wither’d  moon 
Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing 
east ; 

And  all  his  greaves  and  cuisses  dash’d  with 
drops 

Of  onset ; and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls  — 
That  made  his  forehead  like  a rising  sun 
High  from  the  dais  throne  — were  parch’d 
with  dust  ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points  and  hanging  loose. 
Mix’d  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed 
his  lips. 

So  like  a shatter’d  column  lay  the  King ; 
Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 
From  spur  to  plume  a star  of  tournament. 
Shot  thro’  the  lists  «t  Camelot,  and  charged 
Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

Then  loudly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
“ Ah  ! my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I go  ? 
Where  shall  I hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I see  the  true  old  times  are  dead. 
When  every  morning  brought  a noble  chance. 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that 
led 

The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless. 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  the  years. 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  otherminds.” 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the 
barge  : 

“ The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to 
new. 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  w-ays, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the 
world. 

Comfort  thyself : w-hat  comfort  is  in  me  ? 

I have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  1 have 
done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  ! but  thou. 
If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 
Pray  for  my  soul.  More  things  are  wrought 
by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.  Wherefore,  let 
thy  voice 

Rise  like  a fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 


That  nourish  a blind  life  within  the  brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  theylift  not  hands  of  prayer 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them 
friend  ? 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 
But  now  farewell.  I am  going  a long  way 
With  these  thou  seest  — if  indeed  I go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a doubt)  — 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  anv  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ; but  it  lies 
Deep  meadow’d,  happy,  fair  with  orchard- 
lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crown’d  wfith  summer 
sea. 

Where  I will  heal  me  of  my  grievous 
wound.” 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breast- 
ed swan 

That,  fluting  a wild  carol  ere  her  death. 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the 
flood 

With  swarthy  webs.  Long  stood  Sir  Bedi- 
vere 

Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Look’d  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of 
dawn. 

And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

At  length  he  groan’d,  and  turning  slowly 
clomb 

The  last  hard  footstep  of  that  iron  crag  ; 
Thence  mark’d  the  black  hull  moving  yet, 
and  cried, 

” He  passes  to  be  king  among  the  dead. 

And  after  healing  of  his  grievous  wound 
He  comes  again ; but — if  he  come  no  more  — 
O me,  be  yon  dark  Queens  in  yon  black  boat. 
Who  shriek’d  and  wail’d,  the  three  whereat 
we  gazed 

On  that  high  day,  when,  clothed  with  living 
light. 

They  stood  before  his  throne  in  silence, 
friends 

Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need?” 

Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem’d  there  came, 
but  faint 

As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world. 

Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a king  returning  from  his  wars. 

Thereat  once  more  he  moved  about,  and 
clomb 

E’en  to  the  highest  he  could  climb,  and  saw. 
Straining  his  eyes  beneath  an  arch  of  hand. 
Or  thought  he  saw,  the  speck  that  bare  the 
king, 

Down  that  long  water  opening  on  the  deep 
Somewhere  far  off,  pass  on  and  on,  and  go 
From  less  to  less  and  vanish  into  light. 

And  the  new  sun  rose  bringing  the  new  year. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 


269 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


NORTHERN  FARMER. 

NEW  STYLE. 

I. 

Dosn’t  thou  ’ear  my  ’erse’s  legs,  as  they 
canters  awaiiy  ? 

Proputty,  prroputty,  proputty  — that ’s  what 
I ’ears  ’em  saay. 

Propulty,  proputty,  proputty  — Sam,  thou ’s 
an  ass  for  thy  paai'ns  : 

Theer ’s  moor  sense  i’  one  o’  ’is  legs  nor  in 
all  thy  braai'ns. 

II. 

Woa  — theer ’s  a craw  to  pluck  wi’  tha,  Sam; 
yon ’s  parson’s  ’ouse  — 

Dosn’t  thou  knaw  that  a man  mun  be  eather 
a man  or  a mouse  ? 

Time  to  think  on  it  then  ; for  thou  ’ll  be 
twenty  to  weeak.* 

Proputty,  proputty  — woa  then  woa  — let  ma 
’ear  mysen  speak. 

III. 

Me  an’  thy  muther,  Sammy,  ’as  bean 
a-talkin’  o’  thee  ; 

Thou ’s  been  talkin’  to  muther,  an’  she  bean 
a tellin’  it  me. 

Thou  ’ll  not  marry  for  munny  — thou ’s  sweet 
upo’  parson’s  lass  — 

Noa  — thou  ’ll  marry  fur  luvv  — an’  we  boath 
on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 

IV. 

Seea’d  her  todaay  goa  by  — Saaint’s-daay 

— they  was  ringing  the  bells. 

She’s  a beauty  thou  thinks  — an’  soa  is 
scoors  o ’ gells. 

Them  as  ’as  munny  an’  all — wot ’s  a beauty  ? 

— the  flovrer  as  blaws. 

But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an’  proputty, 
proputty  graws. 

V. 

Do’ant  be  stunt : f taake  time : I knaws 
what  maakes  tha  sa  mad. 

Wam’t  I craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysdn  when 
I wur  a lad  ? 

But  I knaw’d  a Quaaker  feller  as  often  ’as 
towd  ma  this : 

“Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer 
munny  is  1 ” 

VI.  • 

An’  I went  wheer  munny  war  : an’  thy  mother 
coom  to  ’and, 

Wi’  lots  o’  munny  laaid  by,  an’  a nicetish  bit 
o’  land. 

* This  week.  f Obstinate. 


Ma^ybe  she  warn’t  a beauty : — I niver  giv 
it  a thowt  — 

But  warn’t  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an’  kiss  as 
a lass  as  ’ant  nowt  ? 

VII. 

Parson’s  lass  ’ant  nowt,  an*  she*  weant  *a 
nowt  when  ’e ’s  dead, 

Mun  be  a guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  ad- 
dle * her  bread  : 

Why?  fur  ’e ’s  nobbut  a curate,  an’  weant 
nivir  git  naw  ’igher  ; 

An’  ’e  maade  the  bed  as  ’e  ligs  on  afoor  ’e 
coom’d  to  the  shire. 

VIII. 

And  thin  ’e  coom’d  to  the  parish  wi’  lots  o’ 
’Varsity  debt, 

Stook  to  his  taail  they  did,  an’  ’e  ’ant  got 
shut  on  ’em  yet. 

An’  ’e  ligs  on  ’is  back  i’  the  grip,  wi’  noan  to 
lend  ’im  a shove, 

Woorse  nor  a far-welter’d  t yowe  : fur,  Sam- 
my, ’e  married  fur  luvv. 

IX. 

Luvv?  What’s  luvv?  thou  can  luvv  thy 
lass  an’  ’er  munny  too, 

Maakin’  ’em  goa  togither  as  they’ve  good 
right  to  do. 

Could’n  I luvv  thy  muther  by  cause  o’  ’er 
munny  laai'd  by  ? 

Naay  — fur  I luvv’d  ’er  a vast  sight  moor 
fur  it : reason  why. 

X. 

Ay  an’  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry 
the  lass, 

Cooms  of  a gentleman  bum  : an’  we  boath 
on  us  thinks  tha  an  ass. 

Woa  then,  proputty,  wdltha?  — an  ass  as 
near  as  mays  nowt  t — 

Woa  then,  wiltha  ? dangtha  ! — the  bees  is  as 
fell  as  owt.  § 

XI. 

Break  me  a bit  o’  the  esh  for  his  ’ead,  lad, 
out  o’  the  fence  ! 

Gentleman  burn!  what’s  gentleman  bum? 
is  it  shillins  an’  pence? 

Proputty,  proputty  ’s  ivrything  ’ere,  an’, 
Sammy,  I ’m  blest 

If  it  isn’t  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as 
’as  it ’s  the  best. 

* Earn. 

t Or  fovr-welter’d  — said  of  a sheep  lying  on  its 

back  in  the  furrow. 

1 Makes  nothing. 

2 The  flies  are  ais  fierce  as  anything. 


*73  the  1 

XII. 

Tis’n  them  as  ’as  munny  as  breaks  into 
’ouses  an’  steals, 

Them  as  ’as  coats  to  their  backs  an’  taakes 
their  regular  meals. 

NoS,  but  it ’s  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a 
meal ’s  to  be  ’ad. 

Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in 
a loomp  is  bad. 

XIII. 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  ’a 
bean  a laazy  lot. 

Fur  work  mun  ’a  gone  to  the  gittin’  whin- 
iver  munny  was  got. 

Feyther  ’ad  ammost  nowt;  leastwaays  ’is 
munny  was  ’id. 

But  ’e  tued  an’  moil’d  ’issdn  dead,  an  ’e  died 
a good  un,  ’e  did. 

XIV. 

Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck 
comes  out  by  the  ’ill ! 

Feyther  run  up  to  the  farm,  an’  I runs  up 
to  the  mill ; 

An’  I ’ll  run  up  to  the  brig,  an’  that  thou  ’ll 
live  to  see ; 

And  if  thou  marries  a good  un  I ’ll  leave  the 
land  to  thee. 

XV. 

Thim ’s  my  noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I 
means  to  stick ; 

But  if  thou  marries  a bad  un,  I ’ll  leave  the 
land  to  Dick.  — 

Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty  — that ’s 
what  I ’ears  ’im  saay  — 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty  — canter  an’ 
canter  awaay. 

THE  VICTIM. 

I. 

A PLAGUE  upon  the  people  fell, 

A famine  after  laid  them  low. 

Then  thorpe  and  byre  arose  in  fire. 

For  on  them  brake  the  sudden  foe  ; 

So  thick  they  died  the  people  cried, 

“ The  Gods  are  moved  against  the  land.” 

The  Priest  in  horror  about  his  altar 

To  Thor  and  Odin  lifted  a hand ; 

“ Help  us  from  famine 

And  plague  and  strife  I 

What  would  you  have  of  us? 

Human  life  ? 

Were  it  our  nearest. 

Were  it  our  dearest, 

(Answer,  O answer) 

We  give  you  his  life.” 

II. 

But  still  the  foeman  spoil’d  and  bum’d. 

And  cattle  died,  and  deer  in  wood, 

HCTIM. 

And  bird  in  air,  and  fishes  turn’d 

And  whiten’d  all  the  rolling  flood ; 

And  dead  men  lay  all  over  the  way. 

Or  down  in  a furrow  scathed  with  flame  ; 
And  ever  and  aye  the  Priesthood  moan’d 

Till  at  last  it  seem’d  that  an  answer  came  ; 

“ The  King  is  happy 

In  child  and  wife  ; 

Take  you  his  dearest, 

Give  us  a life.” 

III. 

The  Priest  went  out  by  heath  and  hill ; 

The.  King  was  hunting  in  the  wild  ; 

They  found  the  mother  sitting  still ; 

She  cast  her  arms  about  the  child. 

The  child  was  only  eight  summers  old. 

His  beauty  still  with  his  years  increased. 
His  face  was  ruddy,  his  hair  was  gold. 

He  seem’d  a victim  due  to  the  priest. 

The  Priest  beheld  him. 

And  cried  with  joy, 

“ The  Gods  have  answer’d; 

We  give  them  the  boy.” 

IV. 

The  King  return’d  from  out  the  wild. 

He  bore  but  little  game  in  hand ; 

The  mother  said ; “ They  have  taken  the 
child 

To  spill  his  blood  and  heal  the  land  : 

The  land  is  sick,  the  people  diseased. 

And  blight  and  famine  on  all  the  lea  : 

The  holy  Gods,  they  must  be  appeased. 

So  I pray  you  tell  the  truth  to  me. 

They  have  taken  our  son. 

They  will  have  his  life. 

Is  he  your  dearest? 

Or  I the  wife  ? ” 

y. 

The  King  bent  low,  with  hand  on  brow. 

He  stay’d  his  arms  upon  his  knee  ; 

“ 0 wife,  what  use  to  answer  now? 

For  now  the  Priest  has  judged  for  me.” 

The  King  was  shaken  with  holy  fear ; 

“ The  Gods,”  he  said,  “would  have  chos- 
en well ; 

Yet  both  are  near,  and  both  are  dear. 

And  which  the  dearest  I cannot  tell ! ’* 

But  the  Priest  was  happy. 

His  victim  won : 

“ We  have  his  dearest. 

His  only  son  !” 

0 . 

VI. 

The  rites  prepared,  the  victim  bared. 

The  knife  uprising  toward  the  blow, 

To  the  altar-stone  she  sprang  alone, 

“ Me^^ot  my  darling,  no  ! ” 

He  caught  her  away  with  a sudden  cry  ; 

Suddenly  from  him  brake  his  wife,  , 

And  shrieking,  “ / am  his  dearest,  I — 

/ am  his  dearest ! ” rush’d  on  the  knife. 
And  the  Priest  was  happy, 

“ 0 Father  Odin, 

♦ 

i 

THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM.  — LUCRETIUS. 


271 


We  give  you  a life. 

Which  was  his  nearest? 
Who  was  his  dearest  ? 
The  Gods  have  answer’d  ; 
We  giye  them  the  wife  ! ” 


WAGES. 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of 
song, 

Paid  with  a voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an 
endless  sea  — 

Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right 
the  wrong  — 

Nay,  but  she  aim’d  not  at  glory,  no  lover 
of  glory  she  : 

Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still 
to  be. 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death  ; if  the  wages  of 
Virtue  be  dust. 

Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life 
of  the  worm  and  the  fly? 

She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats 
of  the  just, 

To  rest  in  a golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a 
summer  sky  : 

Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 


THE  HIGHER  PANTHEISM. 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  seas,  the 
hills  and  the  plains  — 

Are  not  these,  O Soul,  the  Vision  of  Him 
who  reigns  ? 

Is  not  the  Vision  He  ? tho’  He  be  not  that 
which  He  seems? 

Dreams  are  true  while  they  last,  and  do  we 
not  live  in  dreams? 

Earth,  these  solid  stars,  this  weight  of  body 
and  limb. 

Are  they  not  sign  and  symbol  of  thy  division 
from  Him  ? 

Dark  is  the  world  to  thee : thyself  art  the  rea- 
son why  ? 

For  is  He  not  all  but  thou,  that  hast  power 
to  feel  “ I am  I ? ” 

Glory  about  thee,  without  thee  ; and  thou 
fulfillest  thy  doqm. 

Making  Him  broken  ^gleams,  and  a stifled 
splendor  and  gloom. 

Speak  to  Him  thou  for  He  hears,  and  Spirit 
with  Spirit  can  meet  — 

Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  and  nearer  than 
hands  and  feet. 

God  is  law.  say  the  wise  ; O Soul,  and, let  us 
rejoice. 

For  if  He  thunder  by  law  the  thunder  is  yet 
His  voice. 


Law  is  God,  say  some  ; no  God  at  all,  says 
the  fool ; 

For  all  we  have  power  to  see  is  a straight  staff 
bent  in  a pool  ; 

And  the  ear  of  man  cannot  hear  and  the  eye 
of  man  cannot  see  ; 

But  if  we  could  see  and  hear,  this  Vision  — 
were  it  not  He? 


Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies  ; — 

Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand. 
Little  flower  — but  if  I could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

1 should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 


LUCRETIUS. 

Lucilia,  wedded  to  Lucretius,  found 
Her  master  cold  ; for  when  the  morning 
flush 

Of  passion  and  the  first  embrace  had  died 
Between  them,  tho’  he  loved  her  none  the 
less. 

Yet  often  when  the  woman  heard  his  foot 
Return  from  pacings  in  the  field,  and  ran 
To  greet  him  with  a kiss,  the  master  took 
Small  notice,  or  austerely,  for — his  mind 
Half  buried  in  some  weightier  argument. 

Or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise 
And  long  roll  of  the  Hexameter — he  past 
To  turn  and  ponder  those  three  hundred 
scrolls 

Left  by  the  Teacher  whom  he  held  divine. 
She  brook’d  it  not  ; but  wrathful,  petulant. 
Dreaming  some  rival,  sought  and  found  a 
witch 

Who  brew’d  the  philtre  which  had  power, 
they  said. 

To  lead  an  errant  passion  home  again. 

And  this,  at  times,  she  mingled  with  his 
drink. 

And  this  destroy’d  him  ; for  the  wicked  broth 
Confused  the  chemic  labor  of  the  blood. 
And  tickling  the  brute  brain  within  the  man’s 
Made  havoc  among  those  tender  cells,  and 
check’d 

His  power  to  shape  : he  loath’d  himself ; 
and  once 

After  a tempest  woke  upon  a morn 
That  mock’d  him  with  returning  calm,  and 
cried  : 

“ Storm  in  the  night  I for  thrice  I heard 
the  rain 

Rushing ; and  once  the  flash  of  a thunder- 
bolt— 

Methought  I never  saw  so  fierce  a fork  — • 
Struck  out  the  streaming  mountain-side,  at-d 
show’d 

A riotous  confluence  of  watercourses 


272 


LUCRETIUS. 


Blanching  and  billowing  in  a hollow  of  it,. 
Where  all  but  yester-eve  was  dusty-dry. 

“ Storm,  and  what  dreams,  ye  holy  Gods, 
what  dreams  ! 

For  thrice  I waken’d  after  dreams.  Per- 
chance 

We  do  but  recollect  the  dreams  that  come 
Just  ere  the  waking  : terrible  ! for  it  seem’d 
A void  was  made  in  Nature  ; all  her  bonds 
Crack’d  ; and  I saw  the  flaring  atom-streams 
And  torrents  of  her  myriad  universe. 
Ruining  along  the  illimitable  inane, 

Fly  on  to  clash  together  again,  and  make 
Another  and  another  frame  of  things 
Forever  : that  was  mine,  my  dream,  I knew  it 
Of  and  belonging  to  me,  as  the  dog 
With  inward  yelp  and  restless  forefoot  plies 
His  function  of  the  woodland  : but  the  next  ! 
I thought  that  all  the  blood  by  Sylla  shed 
Came  driving  rainlike  down  again  on  earth. 
And  where  it  dash’d  the  reddening  meadow, 
sprang 

No  dragon  warriors  from  Cadmean  teeth. 
For  these  I thought  my  dream  would  show 
to  me. 

But  girls,  Hetairai,  curious  in  their  art, 
Hired  animalisms,  vile  as  those  that  made 
The  mulberry-faced  Dictator’s  orgies  worse 
Than  aught  they  fable  of  the  quiet  Gods. 
And  hands  they  mixt,  and  yell’d  and  round 
me  drove 

In  narrowing  circles  till  I yell’d  again 
Half  suffocated,  and  sprang  up,  and  saw  — 
Was  it  the  first  beam  of  my  latest  day? 

“ Then,  then,  from  utter  gloom  stood  out 
the  breasts. 

The  breasts  of  Helen,  and  hoveringly  a sword 
Now  over  and  now  under,  now  direct. 
Pointed  itself  to  pierce,  but  sank  down 
shamed 

At  all  that  beauty  ; and  as  I stared,  a fire. 
The  fire  that  left  a roofless  Ilion, 

Shot  out  of  them,  and  scorch’d  me  that  I 
woke. 

“ Is  this  thy  vengeance,  holy  Venus,  thine. 
Because  I would  not  one  of  thine  own  doves. 
Not  ev’n  a rose,  were  offer’d  to  thee  ? thine. 
Forgetful  how  my  rich  prooemion  makes 
Thy  glory  fly  along  the  Italian  field. 

In  lays  that  will  outlast  thy  Deity  ? 

“ Deity?  nay,  thy  worshippers.  My  tongue 
Trips,  or  I speak  profanely.  Which  of  these 
Angers  thee  most,  or  angers  thee  at  all  ? 

Not  if  thou  be’st  of  those  who,  far  aloof 
From  envy,  hate  and  pity,  and  spite  and 
scorn, 

Live.the  great  life  which  all  our  greatest  fain 
Would  follow,  centr’d  in  eternal  calm. 

**  Nay,  if  thou  canst,  O Goddess,  like  our- 
selves 

Touch,  and  be  touch’d,  then  would  I cry  to 
thee 

To  kiss  thy  Mavors,  roll  thy  tender  arms 


Round  him,  and  keep  him  from  the  lust  ot 
blood 

That  makes  a steaming  slaughter-house  of 
Rome. 

“ Ay,  but  I meant  not  thee  ; I meant  not 
her. 

Whom  all  the  pines  of  Ida  shook  to  see 
Slide  from  that  quiet  heaven  of  hers,  and 
tempt 

The  Trojan,  while  his  neat-herds  were 
abroad ; 

Nor  her  that  o’er  her  wounded  hunter  wept 
Her  Deity  false  in  human-amorous  tears  ; 
Nor  whom  her  beardless  apple-arbiter 
Decided  fairest.  Rather,  O ye  Gods, 
Poet-like,  as  the  great  Sicilian  called 
Calliope  to  grace  his  golden  verse  — 

Ay,  and  this  Kypris  also — did  I take 
That  popular  name  of  thine  to  shadow  rorth 
The  all-generating  powders  and  genial  heat 
Of  Nature,  when  she  strikes  thro’  the  thick 
blood 

Of  cattle,  and  light  is  large,  and  lambs  are 
glad 

Nosing  the  mother’s  udder,  and  the  bird 
Makes  his  heart  voice  amid  the  blaze  of 
flowers  : 

Which  things  apoear  the  work  of  mighty 
Gods. 

“ The  Gods  ! and  if  I go  my  w’ork  is  left 
Unfinish’d  — go.  The  Gods,  who  haunt 
The  lucid  interspace  of  world  and  world. 
Where  never  creeps  a cloud,  or  moves  a wind, 
Nor  ever  falls  the  least  white  star  of  snow. 
Nor  ever  lowest  roll  of  thunder  moans. 

Nor  sound  of  human  sorrow  mounts  to  mar 
Their  sacred  everlasting  calm  ! and  such, 
Not  all  so  fine,  nor  so  divine  a calm, 

Not  such,  nor  all  unlike  it,  man  may  gain 
Letting  his  own  life  go.  The  Gods,  the 
Gods  I 

If  all  be  atoms,  how  then  should  the  Gods 
Being  atomic  not  be  dissoluble. 

Not  follow  the  great  law  ? My  master  held 
That  Gods  there  are,  for  all  men  so  believe. 
I prest  my  footsteps  into  his,  and  meant 
Surely  to  lead  my  Memmius  in  a train 
Of  flow  ery  clauses  onward  to  the  proof 
That  Gods  there  are,  and  deathless.  Meant  ? 
I meant  ? 

I have  forgotten  what  I meant : my  mind 
Stumbles,  and  all  my  faculties  are  lamed. 

“ Look  where  another  of  our  Gods,  the 
Sun, 

Apollo,  Delius,  or  of  older  use 
All-seeing  Hyperion  — what  you  will  — 

Has  mounted  yonder  ; since  he  never  swarc. 
Except  his  wrath  w'ere  wreak’d  on  wretched 
man. 

That  he  would  only  shine  among  the  dead 
Hereafter  ; tales  ! for  never  yet  on  earth 
Could  dead  flesh  creep,  or  bits  of  roasting  ox 
Moan  round  the  spit — nor  knows  he  what 
he  sees  ; 

King  of  the  East  altho*  he  seem,  and  girt 


LUCRETIUS. 


With  song  and  flame  and  fragrance,  slowly 
lifts 

His  golden  feet  on  those  empurpled  stairs 
That  climb  into  the  windy  halls  of  heaven  : 
And  here  he  glances  on  an  eye  new-born, 
And  gets  for  greeting  but  a wail  of  pain  ; 
And  here  he  stays  upon  a freezing  orb 
That  fain  would  gaze  upon  him  to  the  last ; 
And  here  upon  a yellow  eyelid  fall’n 
And  closed  by  those  who  mourn  a friend  in 
vain, 

Not  thankful  that  his  troubles  are  no  more. 
And  me,  altho’  his  fire  is  on  my  face 
Blinding,  he  sees  not,  nor  at  all  can  tell 
Whether  I mean  this  day  to  end  myself, 

Or  lend  an  ear  to  Plato  where  he  says. 

That  men  like  soldiers  may  not  quit  the  post 
Allotted  by  the  Gods : but  he  that  holds 
The  Gods  are  careless,  wherefore  need  he  care 
Greatly  for  them,  nor  rather  plunge  at  once. 
Being  troubled,  wholly  out  of  sight,  and  sink 
Past  earthquake  — ay,  and  gout  and  stone, 
that  break 

Body  toward  death,  and  palsy,  death-in-life. 
And  wretched  age  — and  worst  disease  of  all, 
Thes^ prodigies  of  myriad  nakednesses. 

And  twisted  shapes  of  lust,  unspeakable. 
Abominable,  strangers  at  my  hearth 
Not  welcome,  harpies  miring  every  dish. 

The  phantom  husks  of  something  foully’done. 
And  fleeting  thro’  the  boundless  universe. 
And  blasting  the  long  quiet  of  my  breast 
With  animal  heat  and  dire  insanity? 

“ How  should  the  mind,  except  it  loved 
them,  clasp 

These  idols  to  herself?  or  do  they  fly 
Now  thinner,  and  now  thicker,  like  the  flakes 
In  a fall  of  snow,  and  so  press  in,  perforce 
Of  multitude,  as  crowds  that  in  an  hour 
Of  civic  tumult  jam  the  doors,  and  bear 
The  keepers  down,  and  throng,  their  rags  and 
they. 

The  basest,  far  into  that  council-hall 
Where  sit  the  best  and  stateliest  of  the  land  ? 

“ Can  I not  fling  this  horror  off  me  again. 
Seeing  with  how  great  ease  Nature  can  smile. 
Balmier  and  nobler  from  her  bath  of  storm. 
At  random  ravage  ? and  how  easily 
The  mountain  there  has  cast  his  cloudy 
slough. 

Now  towering  o’er  him  in  serenest  air, 

A mountain  o’er  a mountain,  — ay,  and 
within 

All  hollow  as  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men. 

“ But  who  was  he,  that  in  the  garden 
snared 

Picus  and  Faunus,  rustic  Gods  ? a tale 
To  laugh  at  — more  to  laugh  at  in  myself  — 
For  look  I what  is  it?  there  ? yon  arbutus 
Totters  ; a noiseless  riot  underneath 
Strikes  through  the  wood,  sets  all  the  tops 
quivering  — 

The  mountain  quickens  into  Nymph  and 
Faun  ; 

And  here  an  Oread  — how  the  sun  delights 


273 

To  glance  and  shift  about  her  slippery  sides. 
And  rosy  knees  and  supple  roundedness. 
And  budded  bosom-peaks  — who  this  way 
runs 

Before  the  rest  — A satyr,  a satyr,  see. 
Follows;  but  him  I proved  impossible  ; 
Twy-natured  is  no  nature  : yet  he  draws 
Nearer  and  nearer,  and  I scan  him  now 
Beastlier  than  any  phantom  of  his  kind 
That  ever  butted  his  rough  brother-brute 
For  lust  or  lusty  blood  or  provender  : 

I hate,  abhor,  spit,  sicken  at  him  ; and  she 
Loathes  him  as  well ; such  a precipitate  heel. 
Fledged  as  it  were  with  Mercury’s  ankle- 
wing. 

Whirls  her  to  me  ; but  will  she  fling  herself. 
Shameless  upon  me?  Catch  her,  goatfoat  : 

Hide,  hide  them,  million-myrtled  wilderness. 
And  cavern-shadowing  laurels,  hide  ! do  I 
wish  — 

What  ? — that  the  bush  were  leafless  ? or  to 
whelm 

All  of  them  in  one  massacre  ? O ye  Gods, 

I know  you  careless,  yet,  behold,  to  you 
From  childly  wont  and  ancient  use  I call  — 
I thought  I lived  securely  as  yourselves  — 
No  lewdness,  narrowing  envy,  monkey-spite. 
No  madness  of  ambition,  avarice,  none  : 

No  larger  feast  than  under  plane  or  pine 
With  neighbors  laid  along  the  grass,  to  take 
Only  such  cups  as  left  us  friendly-warm. 
Affirming  each  his  own  philosophy  — 
Nothing  to  mar  the  sober  majesties 
Of  settled,  sweet.  Epicurean  life. 

But  now  it  seems  some  unseen  monster 
lays 

His  vast  and  filthy  hands  upon  my  will, 
Wrenching  it  backward  into  his  ; and  spoils 
My  bliss  in  being  ; and  it  was  not  great ; 

F or  save  when  shutting  reasons  up  in  rhythm, 
Or  Heliconian  honey  in  living  words. 

To  make  a truth  less  harsh,  I often  grew 
Tired  of  so  much  within  our  little  life. 

Or  of  so  little  in  our  little  life  — 

Poor  little  life  that  toddles  half  an  hour 
Crown’d  with  a flower  or  two,  and  there  an 
end  — 

And  since  the  nobler  pleasure  seems  to  fade. 
Why  should  I,  beastlike  as  I find  myself. 
Not  manlike  end  myself?  — our  privilege  — 
What  beast  has  heart  to  do  it  ? And  what 
man. 

What  Roman  would  be  dragg’d  in  triumph 
thus  ? 

Not  I ; not  he,  who  bears  one  name  with  her. 
Whose  death-blow  struck  the  dateless  doom 
of  kings, 

When  brooking  not  the  Tarquin  in  her  veins. 
She  made  her  blood  in  sight  of  Collatine 
And  all  his  peers,  flushing  the  guiltless  air. 
Spout  from  the  maiden  fountain  in  her  heart. 
And  from  it  sprang  the  Commonwealth, 
which  breaks 
As  1 am  breaking  now  I 

“ And  therefore  now 

Let  her,  that  is  the  womb  and  tomb  of  all. 


274  THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER, 


Great  Nature,  take,  and  forcing  far  apart 
Those  blind  beginnings  that  have  made  me 
man 

Dash  them  anew  together  at  her  will 
Through  all  her  cycles  — into  man  once 
more, 

Or  beast  or  bird  or  fish,  or  opulent  flower  : 
But  till  this  cosmic  order  everywhere 
Shatter’d  into  one  earthquake  in  one  day 
Cracks  all  to  pieces,  — and  that  hour  perhaps 
Is  not  so  far  when  momentary  man 
Shall  seem  no  more  a something  to  himself. 
But  he,  his  hopes  and  hates,  his  homes  and 
fanes, 

And  even  hisboneslonglaid  within  the  grave, 
The  very  sides  of  the  grave  itself  shall  pass, 
Vanishing,  atom  and  void,  atom  and  void. 
Into  the  unseen  forever,  — till  that  hour, 

My  golden  work  in  which  I told  a truth 
That  stays  the  rolling  Ixionian  wheel, 

And  numbs  the  Fury’s  ringlet-snake,  and 
plucks 

The  mortal  soul  from  out  immortal  hell. 
Shall  stand ; ay,  surely  : then  it  fails  at 
last 

And  perishes  as  I must ; for  O Thou, 
Passionless  bride,  divine  Tranquillity, 
Yearn’d  after  by  the  wisest  of  the  wise. 

Who  fail  to  find  thee,  being  as  thou  art 
Without  one  pleasure  and  without  one  i)ain, 
Howbeit  I know  thou  surely  must  be  mine 
Or  soon  or  late,  yet  out  of  season,  thus 
I woo  thee  roughly,  for  thou  carest  not 
How  roughly  men  may  woo  thee  so  they 
win  — 

Thus  — thus  : the  soul  flies  out  and  dies  in  the 
air.” 

With  that  he  drove  the  knife  into  his  side : 
She  heard  him  raging,  heard  him  fall ; ran 
in. 

Beat  breast,  tore  hair,  cried  out  upon  her- 
self 

As  having  fail’d  in  duty  to  him,  shriek’d 
That  she  but  meant  to  win  him  back,  fell  on 
him. 

Clasp’d,  kiss’d  him,  w'ail’d  : he  answer’d, 
“ Care  not  thou  ! 

Thy  duty  ? What  is  duty  ? Fare  thee  well  I ” 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 

[This  poem  is  founded  upon  a story  in  Boccac- 
cio. 

A young-  lover,  Julian,  -whose  cousin  and  foster- 
sister,  Camilla,  has  been  wedded  to  his  friend  and 
rival,  Lionel,  endeavors  to  narrate  the  story  of  his 
own  love  for  her,  and  the  strange  sequel  of  it.  He 
speaks  of  having  been  haunted  in  delirium  by  vis- 
ions and  the  sound  of  bells,  sometimes  tolling  for 
a funeral,  and  at  last  ringing  for  a marriage  : but 
he  breaks  away,  overcome,  as  he  approaches  the 
Event,  and  a witness  to  it  completes  the  tale.] 
***** 

He  flies  the  event : he  leaves  the  event  to 
me  : 

Poor  Julian  — how  he  rush’d  away;  the 
bells, 


Those  marriage-bells,  echoing  in  ear  and 
heart  — 

But  cast  a parting  glance  at  me,  you  saw. 

As  who  should  say  “continue.”  Well,  he 
had 

One  golden  hour  — of  triumph  shall  I say  ? 
Solace  at  least  — before  he  left  his  home. 

Would  you  had  seen  him  in  that  hour  of 
his  ! 

He  moved  thro*  all  of  it  majestically  — 
Restrain’d  himself  quite  to  the  close  — but 
now  — 

Whether  they  were  his  lady’s  marriage- 
bells. 

Or  prophets  of  them  in  his  fantasy, 

I never  ask’d  : but  Lionel  and  the  girl 
Were  wedded,  and  our  Julian  came  again 
Back  to  his  mother’s  house  among  the  pines. 
But  there,  their  gloom,  the  mountains  and 
the  Bay, 

The  whole  land  weigh’d  him  down  as  iEtna. 
does 

The  Giant  of  Mythology  ; he  would  go, 
Would  leave  the  land  forever,  and  haiTgone 
Surely,  but  for  a whisper  “Go  not  yet,” 
Some  warning,  and  divinely  as  it  seem’d 
By  that  which  follow’d  — but  of  this  I deem 
As  of  the  visions  that  he  told the  event 
Glanced  back  upon  them  in  his  after  life. 
And  partly  made  them  — tho’  he  knew  it  not. 

And  thus  he  stay’d  and  would  not  look  at 
her  — 

No  not  for  months  ; but,  when  the  eleventh 
moon 

After  their  marriage  lit  the  lover’s  Bay, 
Heard  yet  once  more  the  tolling  bell,  and 
said. 

Would  you  could  toll  me  out  of  life,  but 
found  — 

All  softly  as  his  mother  broke  it  to  him  — 

A crueller  reason  than  a crazy  ear. 

For  that  low  knell  tolling  his  lady  dead  — 
Dead  — and  had  lain  three  days  without  a 
pulse : 

All  that  look’d  on  her  had  pronounced  her 
dead. 

And  so  they  bore  her  (for  in  Julian’s  land 
They  never  nail  a dumb  head  up  in  elm), 
Bore  her  free-faced  to  the  free  airs  of  heaven. 
And  laid  her  in  the  vault  of  her  own  kin. 

What  did  he  then  ? not  die  : he  is  here  and 
hale  — 

Not  plunge  headforemost  from  the  mountain 
there, 

And  leave  the  name  of  Lover’s  Leap : not 
he : 

He  knew  the  meaning  of  the  W'hisper  now. 
Thought  that  he  knew  it.  “ This,  I stay’d 
for  this ; 

0 love,  I have  not  seen  you  for  so  long. 
Now',  now,  will  I go  down  into  the  grave, 

1 will  be  all  alone,  with  all  I love. 

And  kiss  her  on  the  lips.  She  is  his  no 
more  : 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER.  275 


The  dead  returns  to  me,  and  I go  down 
To  kiss  the  dead.” 

The  fancy  stirr’d  him  so 
He  rose  and  went,  and  entering  the  dim 
vault. 

And,  making  there  a sudden  light  beheld 
All  round  about  him  that  which  all  will  be. 
The  light  was  but  a flash,  and  went  again. 
Then  at  the  far  end  of  the  vault  he  saw 
His  lady  with  the  moonlight  on  her  face  ; 
Her  breast  as  in  a shadow-prison,  bars 
Of  black  and  bands  of  silver,  w'hich  the  moon 
Struck  from  an  open  grating  overhead 
High  in  the  wall,  and  all  the  rest  of  her 
Drown’d  in  the  gloom  and  horror  of  the  vault. 

“ It  was  my  wish,”  he  said,  “to  pass,  to 
sleep. 

To  rest,  to  be  with  her — - till  the  great  day 
Peal’d  on  us  with  that  music  which  rights  all. 
And  raised  us  hand  in  hand.”  And  kneeling 
there 

Down  in  the  dreadful  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Dusti  as  he  said,  that  once  was  loving  hearts. 
Hearts  that  had  beat  with  such  a love  as 
mine  — 

Not  such  as  mine,  no,  nor  for  such  as  her  — 
He  softly  put  his  arm  about  her  neck 
And  kiss’d  her  more  than  once,  till  helpless 
death 

And  silence  made  him  bold  — nay,  but  I 
wrong  him. 

He  reverenced  his  dear  lady  even  in  death  ; 
But,  placing  his  true  hand  upon  her  heart, 

“ O,  you  warm  heart,”  he  moan’d,  “not  even 
death 

Can  chill  you  all  at  once  ” : then  starting, 
thought 

His  dreams  had  come  again.  “ Do  I w'ake  or 
sleep? 

Or  am  I made  immortal,  or  my  love 
Mortal  once  more  ? ” It  beat  — the  heart  — 
it  beat : 

Faint — but  it  beat : at  which  his  own  began 
To  pulse  with  such  a vehemence  that  it 
drown’d 

The  feebler  motion  underneath  his  hand. 
But  when  at  last  his  doubts  were  satisfied, 
He  raised  her  softly  from  the  sepulchre. 

And,  wrapping  her  all  over  with  the  cloak 
He  came  in,  and  now  striding  fast,  and  now 
Sitting  awhile  to  rest,  but  evermore 
Holding  his  golden  burthen  in  his  arms. 

So  bore  her  thro’  the  solitary  land 
Back  to  the  mother’s  house  where  she  was 
born. 

There  the  good  mother’s  kindly  minister- 
ing. 

With  half  a night’s  appliances,  recall’d 
Her  fluttering  life  : she  raised  an  eye  that 
ask’d 

“ Where  ? ” till  the  things  familiar  to  her  youth 
Had  made  a silent  answer  : then  she  spoke, 
“ Here  ! and  how  came  I here  ? ” and  learning 
it 

(They  told  her  somewhat  rashly  as  I think) 


At  once  began  to  wander  and  to  wail, 

“ Ay,  but  you  know  that  you  must  give  me 
back  : 

Send  ! bid  him  come  ” ; but  Lionel  was  away 
Stung  by  his  loss  had  vanish’d,  none  knew 
where. 

“ He  casts  me  out,”  she  wept,  “and  goes” 
— a wail 

That  seeming  something,  yet  was  nothing, 
born 

Not  from  believing  mind,  but  shatter’d  nerve. 
Yet  haunting  Julian,  as  her  own  reproof 
At  some  precipitance  in  her  burial. 

Then,  when  her  own  true  spirit  had  return’d, 
“O  yes,  and  you,”  she  said,  “ and  none  but 
you. 

For  you  have  given  me  life  and  love  again. 
And  none  but  you  yourself  shall  tell  him  of  it, 
And  you  shall  give  me  back  when  he  returns.’ 
“ Stay  then  a little,”  answer’d  Julian,  “ here. 
And  keep  yourself,  none  knowing,  to  your- 
self ; 

And  I will  do  your  will.  I may  not  stay, 
No,  not  an  hour  ; but  send  me  notice  of  him 
When  he  returns,  and  then  will  I return. 
And  I will  make  a solemn  offering  of,  you 
To  him  you  love.”  ' And  faintly  she  replied, 
“ And  I will  do  your  will,  and  none  shall 
know.” 

Not  know  ? with  such  a secret  to  be  known. 
But  all  their  house  was  old  and  loved  them 
both. 

And  all  the  house  had  known  the  loves  of 
both  : 

Had  died  almost  to  serve  them  any  way. 
And  all  the  land  was  w^aste  and  solitary  : 
And  then  he  rode  away  ; but  after  this. 

An  hour  or  two,  Camilla’s  travail  came 
Upon  her,  and  that  day  a boy  was  born. 
Heir  of  his  face  and  land,  to  Lionel. 

And  thus  our  lonely  lover  rode  away, 

And  pausing  at  a hostel  in  a marsh. 

There  fever  seized  upon  him  : myself  was 
then 

Travelling  that  land,  and  meant  to  rest  an 
hour  ; 

And  sitting  down  to  such  a base  repast. 

It  makes  me  angry  yet  to  speak  of  it  — 

I heard  a groaning  overhead,  and  climb’d 
Themoulder’d  stairs  (for  everythingwas  vile) 
And  in  a loft,  with  none  to  wait  on  him. 
Found,  as  it  seem’d,  a skeleton  alone. 
Raving  of  dead  men’s  dust  and  beating 
hearts. 

A dismal  hostel  in  a dismal  land, 

A flat  malarian  world  of  reed  and  rush  ! 

But  there  from  fever  and  my  care  of  him 
Sprang  up  a friendship  that  may  help  us  yet. 
For  while  we  roam’d  along  the  dreary  coast, 
And  waited  for  her  message,  piece  by  piece 
I learnt  the  drearier  story  of  his  life  ; 

And,  tho’  he  loved  and  honor’d  Lionel, 
Found  that  the  sudden  wail  his  lady  made 
Dwelt  in  his  fancy  : did  he  know  her  worth, 
Her  beauty  even  ? should  he  not  be  taught. 


276  THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


Ev’n  by  the  price  that  ©thers  set  upon  it, 
The  value  of  that  jewel  he  had  to  guard  ? 

Suddenly  came  her  notice  and  we  past, 

I with  our  lover  to  his  native  Bay. 

This  love  is  of  the  brain,  the  mind,  the 
soul : 

Thai  makes  the  sequel  pure  ; tho’  some  of 
us 

Beginning  at  the  sequel  know  no  more. 

Not  such  am  I : and  yet  I say,  the  bird 
That  will  not  hear  my  call,  however  sweet. 
But  if  my  neighbor  whistle  answers  him  — 
What  matter?  there  are  others  in  the  wood. 
Yet  when  I saw  her  (and  I thought  him 
crazed, 

Tho*  not  with  such  craziness  as  needs 
A cell  and  keeper),  those  dark  eyes  of  hers  — 
Oh  ! such  dark  eyes  I and  not  her  eyes  alone. 
But  all  from  these  to  where  she  touch’d  on 
earth. 

For  such  a craziness  as  Julian’s  seem’d 
No  less  than  one  divine  apology. 

So  sweetly  and  so  modestly  she  came 
To  §;reet  us,  her  young  hero  in  her  arms  ! 

“ Kiss  him,”  she  said.  “ You  gave  me  life 
again. 

He,  but  for  you,  had  never  seen  it  once. 

His  other  father  you  ! Kiss  him,  and  then 
Forgive  him,  if  his  name  be  Julian  too.” 

Talk  of  lost  hopes  and  broken  heart ! his 
own 

Sent  such  a flame  into  his  face,  I knew 
Some  sudden  vivid  pleasure  hit  him  there. 

But  he  was  all  the  more  resolved  to  go. 
And  sent  at  once  to  Lionel,  praying  him 
By  that  great  love  they  both  had  borne  the 
dead. 

To  come  and  revel  for  one  hour  with  him 
Before  he  left  the  land  forevermore  ; 

And  then  to  friends  — they  were  not  many  — 
who  lived 

Scatteringly  about  that  lonely  land  of  his, 
And  bade  them  to  a banquet  of  farewells. 

And  Julian  made  a solemn  feast ; I never 
Sat  at  a costlier;  for  all  round  his  hall 
From  column  on  to  column,  as  in  a wood. 
Not  such  as  here  — an  equatorial  one. 

Great  garlands  swung  and  blossom’d ; and 
beneath. 

Heirlooms,  and  ancient  miracles  of  Art, 
Chalice  and  salver,  wines  that.  Heaven 
knows  when, 

Had  suck’d  the  fire  of  some  forgotten  sun. 
And  kept  it  thro’  a hundred  yfears  of  gloom. 
Yet  glowing  in  a heart  of  ruby  — cups 
Where  nymph  and  god  ran  ever  round  in 
gold  — 

Others  of  glass  as  costly  — some  with  gems 
Movable  and  resettable  at  will. 

And  trebling  all  the  rest  in  value  — AK 
heavens  ! 

Why  need  I tell  you  all  ? — suffice  to  say 


That  whatsoever  such  a house  as  his. 

And  his  was  old,  has  in  it  rare  or  fair 
Was  brought  before  the  guest ; and  they,  the 
guests. 

Wonder’d  at  some  strange  light  in  Julian’s 
eyes 

(I  told  you  that  he  had  his  golden  hour). 
And  such  a feast,  ill-suited  as  it  seem’d 
To  such  a time,  to  Lionel’s  loss  and  his, 

And  that  resolved  self-exile  from  a land 
He  never  would  revisit, isuch  a feast 
So  rich,  so  strange,  and  stranger  ev*n  than 
rich. 

But  rich  as  for  the  nuptials  of  a king. 

And  stranger  yet,  at  one  end  of  the  hall 
Two  great  funereal  curtains,  looping  down, 
Parted  a little  ere  they  met  the  floor. 

About  a picture  of  his  lady,  taken 

Some  years  before,  and  falling  hid  the  frame. 

And  just  above  the  parting  was  a lamp  : 

So  the  sweet  figure  folded  round  with  night 
Seem’d  stepping  out  of  darkness  with  a smile. 

Well  then  — our  solemn  feast  — we  ate 
and  drank. 

And  might  — the  wines  being  of  such 
nobleness  — 

Have  jested  also,  but  for  Julian’s  eyes, 

And  something  weird  and  wild  about  it  all : 
What  was  it  ? for  our  lover  seldom  spoke. 
Scarce  touch’d  the  meats  ; but  ever  and  anon 
A priceless  goblet  with  a priceless  wine 
Arising,  show’d  he  drank  beyond  his  use  ; 
And  when  the  feast  was  near  an  end,  he  said  : 

“ There  is  a custom  in  the  Orient, 
friends  — 

I read  of  it  in  Persia  — w'hen  a man 
Will  honor  those  who  feast  with  him,  he 
brings 

And  shows  them  whatsoever  he  accounts 
Of  all  his  treasures  the  most  beautiful, 

Gold,  jewels,  arms,  whatever  it  may  be. 

This  custom  — ” 

Pausing  here  a moment,  all 
The  guests  broke  in  upon  him  with  meeting 
hands 

And  cries  about  the  banquet  — ” Beautiful  I 
Who  could  desire  more  beauty  at  a feast  ? ” 

The  lover  answer’d,  ” There  is  more  than 
one 

Here  sitting  who  desires  it.  Laud  me  not 
Before  my  time,  but  hear  me  to  the  close. 
This  custom  steps  yet  further  when  the  guest 
Is  loved  and  honor’d  to  the  uttermost. 

For  after  he  has  shown  him  gems  or  gold. 
He  brings  and  sets  before  him  in  rich  guise 
That  w'hich  is  thrice  as  beautiful  as  these, 
The  beauty  that  is  dearest  to  his  heart  — 

‘ O my  heart’s  lord,  would  1 could  show 
you,’  he  says. 

* Ey’n  my  heart  too.’  And  I propose  to-night 
To'show  you  what  is  dearest  to  my  heart. 
And  my  heart  too. 

” But  solve  me  first  a doubt. 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER,  ^71 


I knew  a man,  nor  many  years  ago  ; 

He  had  a faithful  servant,  one  who  loved 
His  master  more  than  all  on  earth  beside. 
He  falling  sick,  and  seeming  close  on  death, 
His  master  w'ould  not  wait  until  he  died, 

But  bade  his  menials  bear  him  from  the  door. 
And  leave  him  in  the  public  way  to  die. 

I knew  another,  not  so  long  ago, 

Who  found  the  dying  servant,  took  him 
home. 

And  fed,  and  cherish’d  him,  and  saved  his 
life. 

I ask  you  now,  should  this  first  master  claim 
His  service,  whom  does  it  belong  to?  him 
Who  thrust  him  out,  or  him  who  saved  his 
life?’* 

This  question,  so  flung  down  before  the 
guests, 

And  balanced  either  way  by  each,  at  length 
When  some  were  doubtful  how  the  law  would 
hold. 

Was  handed  over  by  consent  of  all 
To  one  who  had  not  spoken,  Lionel. 

Fair  speech  was  his,  an  d delicate  of  phrase. 
And  he  beginning  languidly  — his  loss 
Weigh’d  on  him  yet  — but  warming  as  he 
went, 

Glanced  at  the  point  of  law,  to  pass  it  by. 
Affirming  that  as  long  as  either  lived. 

By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  gratefulness. 

The  service  of  the  one  so  saved  was  due 
All  to  the  saver  — adding,  with  a smile. 

The  first  for  many  weeks  — a semi-smile 
As  at  a strong  conclusion  — “ body  and  soul 
And  life  and  limbs,  all  his  to  work  his  will.” 

Then  Julian  made  a secret  sign  to  mj 
To  bring  Camilla  down  before  them  all. 

And  crossing  her  own  picture  as  she  came. 
And  locking  as  much  lovelier  as  herself 
Is  lovelier  than  all  others  — on  her  head 
A diamond  circlet,  and  from  under  this 
A veil,  that  seem’d  no  more  than  gilded  air. 
Flying  by  each  fine  ear,  an  Eastern  gauze 
With  seeds  of  gold  — so,  with  that  grace  of 
hers, 

Slow-rnoving  as  a wave  against  the  wind. 
That  flings  a mist  behind  it  in  the  sun  — 
And  bearing  high  in  arms  the  mighty  babe. 
The  younger  Julian,  who  himself  was  crown’d 
With  roses,  none  so  rosy  as  himself  — 

And  over  all  her  babe  and  her  the  jewels 
Of  many  generations  of  his  house 
Sparkled  and  flash’d,  for  he  had  decked  them 
out 

As  for  a solemn  sacrifice  of  love  — 

So  she  came  in  : — 1 am  long  in  telling  it, 

I never  yet  beheld  a thing  so  strange. 

Sad,  sweet,  and  strange  together  — floated 
in,  — 

While  all  the  guests  in  mute  amazement 
rose,  — 

And  slowly  pacing  to  the  middle  hall. 

Before  the  board,  there  paused  and  stood,  her 
breast 

Hard-heaving,  and  her  eyes  upon  her  feet, 


Not  daring  yet  to  glance  at  Lionel. 

But  him  she  carried,  him  nor  lights  nor  feast 
Dazed  or  amazed,  nor  eyes  of  men ; who 
cared 

Only  to  use  his  own,  and  staring  wide 
And  hungering  for  the  gilt  and  jewell’d  world 
About  him,  look’d,  as  he  is  like  to  prove, 
When  Julian  goes,  the  lord  of  all  he  saw. 

**  My  guests,”  said  Julian  : “ you  are  hoa* 
or’d  now 

Ev’n  to  the  uttermost ; in  her  behold 
Of  all  my  treasures  the  most  beautiful. 

Of  all  things  upon  earth  the  dearest  to  me.” 
Then  waving  us  a sign  to  seat  ourselves. 

Led  his  dear  lady  to  a chair  of  state. 

And  I,  by  Lionel  sitting,  saw'  his  face 
Fire,  and  dead  ashes  and  all  fire  again 
Thrice  in  a second,  felt  him  tremble  too. 
And  heard  him  muttering,  “ So  like,  so  like  ; 
She  never  had  a sister.  I knew  none. 

Some  cousin  of  his  and  hers  — O God,  so 
like  ! ” 

And  then  he  suddenly  ask’d  her  if  she  were. 
She  shook,  and  cast  her  eyes  down,  and  was 
dumb. 

And  then  some  other  question’d  if  she  came 
From  foreign  lands,  and  still  she  did  not 
speak. 

Another,  if  the  boy  were  hers : but  she 
To  all  their  queries  answer’d  not  a word. 
Which  made  the  amazement  more,  till  one 
of  them 

Said,  shuddering,  ” Her  spectre  I ” But  his 
friend 

Replied,  in  half  a whisper,  “ Not  at  least 
The  spectre  that  will  speak  if  spoken  to. 
Terrible  pity,  if  one  so  beautiful 
Pr:ve,  as  I almost  dread  to  find  her,  dumb  ! ” 

But  Julian,  sitting  by  her,  answer’d  all : 

“ She  is  but  dumb,  because  in  her  you  see 
That  faithful  servant  whom  we  spoke  about, 
Obedient  to  her  second  master  now ; 

Which  will  not  last.  I have  here  to-night  a 
guest 

So  bound  to  me  by  common  love  and  loss  — 
What ! shall  I bind  him  more  ? in  his  behalfj 
Shall  I exceed  the  Persian,  giving  him 
That  which  of  all  things  is  the  dearest  to  me. 
Not  only  showing?  and  he  himself  pro- 
nounced 

That  my  rich  gift  is  wholly  mine  to  give. 

“ Now  all  be  dumb,  and  promise  all  of  you 
Not  to  break  in  on  what  I say  by  word 
Or  w'hisper,  while  I show  you  all  my  heart.’* 
And  then  began  the  story  of  his  love 
As  here  to-day,  but  not  so  wordily  — 

The  passionate  moment  would  not  suffer 
that  — 

Past  thro’  his  visions  to  the  burial ; thence 
Down  to  this  last  strange  hour  in  his  own 
hall ; 

And  then  rose  up,  and  with  him  all  his  guests 
Once  more  as  by  enchantment;  all  but  he, 
Lionel,  who  fain  had  risen,  but  fell  again. 
And  sat  as  if  in  chains  — to  whom  he  said  ; 


2/8 


THE  GOLDEN  SUPPER. 


“ Take  my  free  gift,  my  cousin,  for  your 
wife  ; 

And  were  it  only  for  the  giver’s  sake, 

And  tho’  she  seems  so  like  the  one  you  lost. 

Yet  cast  her  not  away  so  suddeflly. 

Lest  there  be  none  left  here  to  bring  her 
back  : 

I leave  this  land  forever.”  Here  he  ceased. 

Then  taking  his  dear  lady  by  one  hand. 

And  bearing  on  one  arm  the  noble  babe. 

He  slowly  brought  them  both  to  Lionel. 

And  there  the  widower  husband  and  dead 
wife 

Rush’d  each  at  each  with  a cry,  that  rather 
seem’d 

For  some  new  death  than  for  a life  renew’d  ; 

At  this  the  very  babe  began  to  wail ; 


At  once  they  turn’d,  and  caught  and  brought 
him  in 

To  their  disarm’d  circle,  and,  half  killing  him 
With  kisses,  round  him  closed  and  claspt 
again. 

But  Lionel,  when  at  last  he  freed  himself 
From  wife  and  child,  and  lifted  up  a face 
All  over  glowing  with  the  sun  of  life. 

And  love,  and  boundless  thanks  — the  sight 
of  this 

So  frighted  our  good  friend,  that  turning  to 
me 

And  saying,  “ It  is  over  : let  us  go  ” — 
There  were  our  horses  ready  at  the  doors  — 
We  bade  them  no  farewell,  but  mounting 
these 

He  past  forever  from  his  native  land  ; 

And  I with  him,  my  Julian,  back  to  mine. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


/ 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS. 


Note.  — The  Poems  which  follow  include  all  those  which  have  been  omitted  by  the  author  from  his 
latest  revised  editions,  or  never  acknowledged  by  him.  They  are  here  printed,  because,  although  un- 
sanctioned by  Mr.  Tennyson,  they  have  recently  been  collected  from  various  sources,  and  printed  in 
A merica. 


TIMBUCTOO.* 

“ Deep  in  that  lion-haunted  inland  lies 
A mystic  city,  goal  of  high  emprise.” 

Chapman. 

I STOOD  upon  the  Mountain  which  o’er- 
looks 

The  narrow  seas,  whose  rapid  interval 
Parts  Afric  from  green  Europe,  when  the 
Sun 

Had  fall’n  below  th’  Atlantic,  and  above 
The  silent  heavens  were  blench’d  with  faery 
light, 

Uncertain  whether  faery  light  or  cloud. 
Flowing  Southward,  and  the  chasms  of  deep, 
deep  blue 

Slumber’d  unfathomable,  and  the  stars 
Were  flooded  over  with  clear  glory  and  pale. 
I gazed  upon  the  sheeny  coast  beyond, 

There  where  the  Giant  of  old  Time  infix’d 
The  limits  of  his  prowess,  pillars  high 
Long  time  erased  from  earth  : even  as  the 
Sea 

When  weary  of  wild  inroad  buildeth  up 
Huge  mounds  whereby  to  stay  his  yeasty 
waves. 

And  much  I mused  on  legends  quaint  and 
old 

Which  whilome  won  the  hearts  of  all  on 
earth 

Toward  their  brightness,  ev’n  as  flame  draws 
air ; 

But  had  their  being  in  the  heart  of  man 
As  air  is  th’  life  of  flame  : and  thou  wert  then 
A centred  glory-circled  memory, 

Divinest  Atalantis,  whom  the  waves 
Have  buried  deep,  and  thou  of  later  name. 
Imperial  Eldorado,  roof’d  with  gold: 
Shadows  to  which, despite  all  shocks  of  change, 
All  on-set  of  capricious  accident. 

Men  clung  with  yearning  hope  which  would 
not  die. 

As  when  in  some  great  city  where  the  walls 
Shake,  and  the  streets  with  ghastly  faces 
thronged. 

Do  utter  forth  a subterranean  voice, 

* A Poem  which  obtained  the  Chancellor’s  Medal 
at  the  Cambridge  Commencement,  MDCCCXXIX. 
By  A.  Tennyson,  of  Trinity  College. 


Among  the  inner  columns  far  retired 
At  midnight,  in  the  lone  Acropolis, 

Before  the  awful  genius  of  the  place 
Kneels  the  pale  Priestess  in  deep  faith,  the 
while 

Above  her  head  the  weak  lamp  dips  and 
w'inks 

Unto  the  fearful  summoning  without : 
Nathless  she  ever  clasps  the  marble  knees. 
Bathes  the  cold  hand  with  tears,  and  gazeth 
on 

Those  eyes  which  wear  no  light  but  that 
wherewith 

Her  fantasy  informs  them. 

Where  are  ye, 

Thrones  of  the  Western  wave,  fair  islands 
green  ? 

Where  are  your  moonlight  halls,  your  cedarn 
glooms. 

The  blossoming  abysses  of  your  hills? 

Your  flowering  capes,  and  your  gold-sanded 
bays 

Blown  round  with  happy  airs  of  odorous 
winds? 

Where  are  the  infinite  ways,  which,  seraph- 
trod, 

Wound  through  your  great  Elysian  solitudes, 
Whose  lowest  deeps  were,  as  with  visible 
love. 

Filled  with  Divine  effulgence,  circumfused. 
Flowing  between  the  clear  and  polished 
stems. 

And  ever  circling  round  their  emerald  cones 
In  coronals  and  glories,  such  as  gird 
The  unfading  foreheads  of  the  Saints  in 
Heaven  ? 

For  nothing  visible,  they  say,  had  birth 
In  that  blest  ground,  but  it  was  played  about 
With  its  peculiar  glory.  Then  I raised 
My  voice  and  cried,  “Wide  Afric,  doth  thy 
Sun 

Lighten,  thy  hills  enfold  a city  as  fair 
As  those  which  starred  the  night  o’  the  eldet 
world  ? 

Or  is  the  rumor  of  thy  Timbuctoo 
A dream  as  frail  as  those  of  ancient  time  ? ” 
A curve  of  whitening,  flashing,  ebbing  lightl 
A rustling  of  white  wings!  the  bright  de- 
scent 

Of  a young  Seraph  ! and  he  stood  beside  me 


TIMBUCTOO. 


282 


There  on  the  ridge,  and  looked  into  my  face 
With  his  unutterable,  shining  orbs, 

So  that  with  hasty  motion  I did  veil 
My  vision  with  both  hands,  and  saw  before  me 
Such  colored  spots  as  dance  athwart  the  eyes 
Of  those  that  gaze  upon  the  noonday  Sun. 
Girt  with  a zone  of  flashing  gold  beneath 
His  breast,  and  compassed  round  about  his 
brow 

With  triple  arch  of  everchanging  bow's. 

And  circled  with  the  glory  of  living  light 
And  alternation  of  all  hues,  he  stood. 

“ O child  of  man,  why  muse  you  here  alone 
Upon  the  Mountain,  on  the  dreams  of  old 
Which  filled  the  earth  with  passing  loveliness. 
Which  flung  strange  music  on  the  howling 
winds. 

And  odors  rapt  from  remote  Paradise  ? 

Thy  sense  is  clogged  with  dull  mortality ; 
Open  thine  eyes  and  see.” 

I looked,  but  not 

Upon  his  face,  for  it  was  wonderful 
With  its  exceeding  brightness,  and  the  light 
Of  the  great  Angel  Mind  which  looked  from 
out 

The  starry  glowing  of  his  restless  eyes. 

I felt  my  soul  grow  mighty,  and  my  spirit 
With  supernatural  excitation  bound 
Within  me,  and  my  mental  eye  grew  large 
With  such  a vast  circumference  of  thought. 
That  in  my  vanity  I seemed  to  stand 
Upon  the  outward  verge  and  bound  alone 
Of  full  beatitude.  Each  failing  sense. 

As  with  a momentary  flash  of  light. 

Grew  thrillingly  distinct  and  keen.  I saw 
The  smallest  grain  that  dappled  the  dark 
earth, 

The  indistinctest  atom  in  deep  air. 

The  Moon’s  white  cities,  and  the  opal  width 
Of  her  small  glowing  lakes,  her  silver  heights 
Unvisited  with  dew  of  vagrant  cloud. 

And  the  unsounded,  undescended  depth 
Of  her  black  hollows.  The  clear  galaxy 
Shorn  of  its  hoary  lustre,  wonderful. 

Distinct  and  vivid  with  sharp  points  of  light. 
Blaze  within  blaze,  an  unimagined  depth 
And  harmony  of  planet-girded  suns 
And  moon-encircled  planets,  wheel  in  wheel. 
Arched  the  wan  sapphire.  Nay — the  hum 
of  men. 

Or  other  things  talking  in  unknown  tongues. 
And  notes  of  busy  life  in  distant  worlds 
Beat  like  a far  wave  on  my  anxious  ear, 

A maze  of  piercing,  trackless,  thrilling 
thoughts. 

Involving  and  embracing  each  with  each. 
Rapid  as  fire,  inextricably  linked. 

Expanding  momently  with  every  sight 
And  sound  which  struck  the  palpitating  sense. 
The  issue  of  strong  impulse,  hurried  through 
The  riven  rapt  brain  ; as  when  in  some  large 
lake 

From  pressure  of  descendent  crags,  which 
lapse 

Disjointed,  crumbling  from  their  parent  slope 
At  slender  interval,  the  level  calm 
Is  ridged  with  restless  and  increasing  spheres 
Which  break  upon  each  other,  each  th’  effect 


Of  separate  impulse,  but  more  fleet  and 
strong 

Than  its  precursor,  till  the  eye  in  vain 
Amid  the  wild  unrest  of  swimming  shade 
Dappled  with  hollow  and  alternate  rise 
Of  interpenetrated  arc,  would  scan 
Definite  round. 

I know  not  if  I shape 
These  things  with  accurate  similitude 
From  visible  objects,  for  but  dimly  now. 

Less  vivid  than  a half-forgotten  dream. 

The  memory  of  that  mental  excellence 
Comes  o’er  me,  and  it  may  be  I entwine 
The  indecision  of  my  present  mind 
With  its  past  clearness,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
As  even  then  the  torrent  of  quick  thought 
Absorbed  me  from  the  nature  of  itself 
With  its  own  fleeiness.  Where  is  he,  that 
borne 

Adown  the  sloping  of  an  arrow'y  stream. 
Could  link  his  shallop  to  the  fleeting  edge. 
And  muse  midway  with  philosophic  calm 
Upon  the  wondrous  law's  which  regulate 
The  fierceness  of  the  bounding  element? 

My  thoughts  which  long  had  grovelled  in 
the  slime 

Of  this  dull  w'orld,  like  dusky  worms  which 
house 

Beneath  unshaken  waters,  but  at  once 
Upon  some  earth-awakening  day  of  Spring 
Do  pass  from  gloom  to  glory,  and  aloft 
Winnow  the  purple,  bearing  on  both  sides 
Double  display  of  star-lit  wings,  which  burn 
Fan-like  and  fibred  with  intensest  bloom  ; 
Even  so  my  thoughts  erewhile  so  low,  now 
felt 

Unutterable  buoyancy  and  strength 
To  bear  them  upward  through  the  trackless 
fields 

Of  undefined  existence  far  and  free. 

Then  first  within  the  South  methought  I 
saw 

A wilderness  of  spires,  and  crystal  pile 
Of  rampart  upon  rampart,  dome  on  domer 
Illimitable  range  of  battlement 
On  battlement,  and  the  Imperial  height 
Of  canopy  o’ercanopied. 

Behind 

In  diamond  light  up  spring  the  dazzling  peaks 
Of  Pyramids,  as  far  surpassing  earth’s 
As  heaven  than  earth  is  fairer.  Each  aloft 
Upon  his  narrowed  eminence  bore  globes 
Of  wheeling  suns,  or  stars,  or  semblances 
Of  either,  showering  circular  abyss 
Of  radiance.  But  the  glory  of  the  place 
Stood  out  a pillared  front  of  burnished  gold. 
Interminably  high,  if  gold  it  were 
Or  metal  more  ethereal,  and  beneath 
Two  doors  of  blinding  brilliance,  where  no 
gaze 

Might  rest,  stood  open,  and  the  eye  could 
scan. 

Through  length  of  porch  and  valve  and 
boundless  hall, 

Part  of  a throne  of  fiery  flame,  wherefrom 
The  snowy  skirting  of  a garment  hung. 

And  glimpse  of  multitude  of  multitudes 
i That  ministered  around  it  — if  I saw 


ELEGIACS. 


283 


Th^se  things  dlstlnctl3%  for  my  human  brain 
Staggered  beneath  the  vision,  and  thick  night 
Came  down  upon  my  eyelids,  and  I fell. 

With  ministering  hand  he  raised  me  up  : 
Then  with  a mournful  and  ineffable  smile, 
Which  but  to  look  on  for  a moment  filled 
My  eyes  with  irresistible  sweet  tears, 

In  accents  of  majestic  melody. 

Like  a swoln  river’s  gushings  in  still  night 
Mingled  with  floating  music,  thus  he  spake  : 

“ There  is  no  mightier  Spirit  than  I to  sway 
The  heart  of  man  ; and  teach  him  to  attain 
By  shadowing  forth  the  Unattainable  ; 

And  step  by  step  to  scale  that  mighty  stair 
Whose  landing-place  is  wrapt  about  with 
clouds 

Of  glory  of  heaven.*  With  earliest  light  of 
Spring, 

And  in  the  glow  of  sallow  Summertide, 

And  in  red  Autumn  when  the  winds  are  wild 
With  gambols,  and  when  full-voiced  Winter 
roofs 

The  headland  with  inviolate  white  snow, 

I play  about  his  heart  a thousand  ways. 

Visit  his  eyes  with  visions,  and  his  ears 
With  harmonies  of  wind  and  wave  and  wood, 
— Of  winds  which  tell  of  waters,  and  of  waters 
Betraying  the  close  kisses  of  the  wind  — 

And  win  him  unto  me  : and  few  there  be 
So  gross  of  heart  who  have  not  felt  and  known 
A higher  than  they  see  : they  with  dim  eyes 
Behold  me  darkling.  Lo  ! I have  given  thee 
To  understand  my  presence,  and  to  feel 
My  fulness  : I have  filled  thy  lips  with  power. 
1 have  raised  thee  nigher  to  the  spheres  of 
heaven, 

Man’s  first,  last  home : and  thou  with  rav- 
ished sense 

• “ Be  ye  perfect,  even  as  your  Father  in  heaven 
is  perfect.” 


POEMS  PUBLISHED 
AND  OMITTED 

ELEGIACS. 

Low- FLOWING  breezes  are  roaming  the  broad 
valley  dimmed  in  the  gloaming  ; 

Thro’  the  black-stemmed  pines  only  the  far 
river  shines. 

Creeping  through  blossomy  rushes  and  bow- 
ers of  rose-blowing  bushes, 

Down  by  the  poplartall  rivuletsbabble  and  fall. 

Barketh  the  shepherd-dog  cheerly  ; the  grass- 
hopper carolleth  clearly  ; 

Deeply  the  turtle  cooes;  shrilly  the  owlet 
halloos  ; 

Winds  creep  : dews  fall  chilly : in  her  first 
sleep  earth  breathes  stilly  : 

Over  the  pools  in  the  burn  watergnats  mur- 
mur and  mourn. 


Listenest  the  lordly  music  flowing  from 
The  illimitable  years.  I am  the  Spirit, 

The  permeating  life  which  courseth  through 
All  th’  intricate  and  labyrinthine  veins 
Of  the  great  vine  of  P'able,  which,  outspread 
With  growth  of  shadowing  leaf  and  clusters 
rare, 

Reacheth  to  every  corner  under  heaven. 
Deep-rooted  in  the  living  soil  of  truth  ; 

So  that  men’s  hopes  and  fears  take  refuge  in 
The  fragrance  of  its  complicated  glooms, 
And  cool  impeached  twilights.  Child  of  man, 
Seest  thou  yon  river,  whose  translucent  wave. 
Forth  issuing  from  the  darkness,  windeth 
through 

The  argent  streets  o’  the  city,  imaging 
The  soft  inversion  of  her  tremulous  domes. 
Her  gardens  frequent  with  the  stately  palm, 
Her  pagods  hung  with  music  of  sweet  bells. 
Her  obelisks  of  ranged  chrysolite. 

Minarets  and  towers  ? Lo  ! how  he  passeth 
by, 

And  gulfs  himself  in  sands,  as  not  enduring 
To  carry  through  the  world  those  waves,  which 
bore 

The  reflex  of  my  city  in  their  depth. 

O city  ! O latest  throne  ! where  1 was  raised 
To  be  a mystery  of  loveliness 
Unto  all  eyes,  the  time  is  wellnigh  come 
When  I must  render  up  this  glorious  home 
I'o  keen  Discovery  ; soon  yon  brilliant  towers 
Shall  darken  w'ith  the  waving  of  her  wand  ; 
Darken  and  shrink  and  shiver  into  huts. 
Black  specks  amid  a waste  of  dreary  sand. 
Low-built,  mud-walled,barbarian  settlements. 
How  changed  from  this  fair  city  ! 

Thus  far  the  Spirit  : 
Then  parted  heavenward  on  the  wing  : and  I 
Was  left  alone  on  Calpe,  and  the  moon 
Had  fallen  from  the  night,  and  all  was  dark  I 


Sadly  the  far  kine  loweth  : the  glimmering 
water  outfloweth  : 

Twin  peaks  shadowed  with  pine  slope  to  the 
dark  hyaline.  — 

Low-throned  Hesper  is  stayed  betw'een  the 
two  ireaks  ; but  the  Naiad 

Throbbing  in  wild  unrest  holds  him  beneath 
in  her  breast. 

The  ancient  poetess  singeth  that  Hesperus 
all  things  bringeth. 

Smoothing  the  wearied  mind  : bring  me  my 
love,  Rosalind. 

Thou  comest  morning  and  even  ; she  cometh 
not  morning  or  even. 

False-eyed  Hesper,  unkind,  where  is  my 
sw’eet  Rosalind  ? 


IN  THE  EDITION  OF  1830, 
IN  LATER  EDITIONS. 


284  '^he  and  the  whyn — su pposed  confessions. 


THE  “HOW”  AND  THE  “WHY.” 

? 

I AM  any  man’s  suitor. 

If  any  will  be  my  tutor: 

Some  say  this  life  is  pleasant, 

Some  think  it  speedeth  fast, 

In  time  there  is  no  present. 

In  eternity  no  future. 

In  eternity  no  past. 

We  laugh,  we  cry,  we  are  born,  we  die. 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why  ? 

The  bulrush  nods  unto  its  brother. 

The  wheatears  whisper  to  each  other  : 

What  is  it  they  say  ? what  do  they  there  ? 

Why  two  and'  two  make  four  ? why  round  is 
not  square  ? 

Why  the  rock  stands  still,  and  the  light 
clouds  fly  } 

Why  the  heavjr  oak  groans,  and  the  white 
willows  sigh  ? 

Why  deep  is  not  high,  and  high  is  not  deep? 

Whether  we  wake  or  whether  we  sleep  ? 

Whether  we  sleep,  or  whether  we  die? 

How  you  are  you  ? why  I am  I ? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  why  ? 

The  world  is  somewhat ; it  goes  on  somehow  : 

But  what  is  the  meaning  of  then  and  now  ? 

I feel  there  is  something ; but  how  and 
what  ? 

I know  there  is  somewhat : but  what  and 
why  ? 

I cannot  tell  if  that  somewhat  be  I. 

The  little  bird  pipeth  — “ why  ? why  ? ” 

In  the  summer  woods  when  the  sun  falls  low. 

And  the  great  bird  sits  on  the  opposite  bough, 

And  stares  in  his  face  and  shouts  “ how  ? 
how  ? ” 

And  the  black  owl  scuds  down  the  mellow 
twilight, 

And  chants  “ how  ? how  ? ” the  whole  of  the 
night. 

Why  the  life  goes  out  when  the  blood  is  spilt  ? 

What  the  life  is?  where  the  soul  may  lie  ? 

Why  a church  is  with  a steeple  built ; 

And  a house  with  a chimney-pot  ? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  how  and  the  what? 

Who  will  riddle  me  the  what  and  the  why  ? 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS 

OF  A SECOND-RATE  SENSITIVE  MIND  NOT 
IN  UNITY  WTTH  ITSELF. 

0 God  ! my  God  ! have  mercy  now. 

1 faint,  1 fall.  Men  say  that  thou 
Didst  die  for  me,  for  such  as  me. 

Patient  of  ill,  and  death,  and  scorn. 

And  that  my  sin  w’as  as  a thorn 
Among  the  thorns  that  girt  thy  brow. 
Wounding  thy  soul.  — That  even  now. 

In  this  exiremest  misery 

Of  ignorance,  I should  require 


A sign  ! and  if  a bolt  of  fire 

Would  rive  the  slumberous  summer  noon 

While  I do  pray  to  thee  alone. 

Think  my  belief  would  stronger  grow  ! 

Is  not  my  human  pride  brought  low? 

I'he  boastings  of  my  spirit  still  ? 

The  joy  I had  in  my  free  will 

All  cold,  and  dead,  and  corpse-like  grown  ? 

And  w hat  is  left  to  me,  but  thou. 

And  faith  in  thee  ? Men  pass  me  by  ; 
Christians  with  happy  countenances  — 

And  children  all  seem  full  of  thee  ! 

And  women  smile  with  saintlike  glances 
Like  thine  own  mother’s  when  she  bowed 
Above  thee,  on  that  happy  morn 
When  angels  spake  to  men  aloud. 

And  thou  and  peace  to  earth  were  bom. 
Goodwill  to  me  as  well  as  all  — 

— I one  of  them  : my  brothers  they  ; 
Brothers  in  Christ  — a world  of  peace 
And  confidence,  day  after  day  ; 

And  trust  and  hope  till  things  should  cease. 
And  then  one  Heaven  receive  us  all. 

How  sweet  to  have  a common  faith  ! 

To  hold  a common  scorn  of  death  ! 

And  at  a burial  to  hear 
The  creaking  cords  which  w'ound  and  eat 
Into  my  human  heart,  whene’er 
Earth  goes  to  earth,  with  grief,  not  fear. 
With  hopeful  grief,  were  passing  sweet  I 
A grief  not  uninformed,  and  dull. 

Hearted  with  hope,  of  hope  as  full 
As  is  the  blood  with  life,  or  night 
And  a dark  cloud  with  rich  moonlight. 

To  stand  beside  a grave,  and  see 
The  red  small  atoms  wherewith  we 
Are  built,  and  smile  in  calm,  and  say  — 

“ These  little  motes  and  grains  shall  be. 

Clothed  on  w'ith  immortality 

More  glorious  than  the  noon  of  day. 

All  that  is  pass’d  into  the  flowers. 

And  into  beasts  and  other  men. 

And  all  the  Norland  whirlwind  showers 
From  open  vaults,  and  all  the  sea 
O’erwashes  with  sharp  salts,  again 
Shall  fleet  together  all,  and  be 
Indued  with  immortality.” 

Thrice  happy  state  again  to  be 
The  trustful  infant  on  the  knee  ! 

Who  lets  his  waxen  fingers  play 
About  his  mother’s  neck,  and  knows 
Nothing  beyond  his  mother’s  eyes. 

They  comfort  him  by  night  and  day. 

They  light  his  little  life  alway  ; 

He  hath  no  thought  of  coming  woes; 

He  hath  no  care  of  life  or  death. 

Scarce  outward  signs  of  joy  arise. 

Because  the  Spirit  of  happiness 
And  perfect  rest  so  inward  is ; 

And  loveth  so  his  innocent  heart. 

Her  temple  and  her  place  of  birth. 

Where  she  would  ever  wish  to  dwell. 

Life  of  the  fountain  there,  beneath 
Its  salient  springs,  and  far  apart. 

Hating  to  wander  out  on  earth. 

Or  breathe  into  the  hollow  air. 


SUPPOSED  CONFESSIONS. 


285 


Whose  chillness  would  make  visible 
Her  subtile,  warm,  and  golden  breath. 

Which  mixing  with  the  infant’s  blood. 

Full  fills  him  with  beatitude. 

Oh  ! sure  it  is  a special  care 
Of  God,  to  fortify  from  doubt. 

To  arm  in  proof,  and  guard  about 
With  triple  mailed  trust,  and  clear 
Delight,  the  infant’s  dawning  year. 

Would  that  my  gloomed  fancy  were 
As  thine,  my  mother,  when  with  brows 
Propped  on  thy  knees,  my  hands  upheld 
In  thine,  I listened  to  thy  vows. 

For  me  outpoured  in  holiest  prayer  — 

For  me  unworthy  ! — and  beheld 
The  mild  deep  eyes  upraised,  that  knew 
The  beauty  and  repose  of  faith. 

And  the  clear  spirit  shining  through. 

Oh  ! wherefore  do  we  grow  awry 

From  roots  which  strike  so  deep?  why  dare 

Paths  in  the  desert  ? Could  not  I 

Bow  myself  down,  where  thou  hast  knelt, 

To  th’  earth  — until  the  ice  would  melt 
Here,  and  I feel  as  thou  hast  felt  ? 

What  Devil  had  the  heart  to  scathe 
Flowers  thou  hadst  reared  — to  brush  the  dew 
From  thine  own  lily,  when  thy  grave 
Was  deep,  my  mother,  in  the  clay? 

Myself?  Is  it  thus?  Myself?  Had  I 
So  little  love  for  thee  ? But  why 
Prevailed  not  thy  pure  prayers?  Why  pray 
To  one  who  heeds  not,  w'ho  can  save 
But  will  not  ? Great  in  faith,  and  strong 
Against  the  grief  of  circumstance 
Wert  thou,  and  yet  unheard  ? What  if 
Thou  pleadest  still,  and  seest  me  drive 
Through  utter  dark  a full-sailed  skiff. 
Unpiloted  i’  the  echoing  dance 
Of  reboant  whirlwinds,  stooping  low 
Unto  the  death,  not  sunk  ! I know 
At  matins  and  at  evensong. 

That  thou,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive. 

In  deep  and  daily  prayers  wouldst  strive 
To  reconcile  me  with  thy  God. 

Albeit,  my  hope  is  gray,  and  cold 
At  heart,  thou  wouldest  murmur  still - 
“ Bring  this  lamb  back  into  thy  fold. 

My  Lord,  if  so  it  be  thy  will.” 

Wouldst  tell  me  I must  brook  the  rod, 

And  chastisement  of  human  pride  ; 

That  pride,  the  sin  of  devils,  stood 
Betwixt  me  and  the  light  of  God  ! 

That  hitherto  I had  defied. 

And  had  rejected  God  — that  Grace 
Would  drop  from  his  o’erbrimming  love. 

As  manna  on  my  wilderness. 

If  I would  pray  — that  God  would  move 
And  strike  the  hard,  hard  rock,  and  thence. 
Sweet  in  their  utmost  bitterness. 

Would  issue  tears  of  penitence 
Which  would  keep  green  hope’s  life.  Alas  ! 
I think  that  pride  hath  now  no  place 
Or  sojourn  in  me.  I am  void. 

Dark,  formless,  utterly  destroyed. 

Why  not  believe  then  ? Why  not  yet 
Anchor  thy  frailty  there,  where  man 
Hath  moored  and  rested  ? Ask  the  sea 


At  midnight,  when  the  crisp  slope  waves 
After  a tempest,  rib  and  fret 
The  broad-imbased  beach,  why  he 
Slumbers  not  like  a mountain  tarn  ? 

Wherefore  his  ridges  are  not  curls 
And  ripples  of  an  inland  meer? 

Wherefore  he  moaneth  thus,  nor  can 
Draw'  down  into  his  vexed  pools 
All  that  blue  heaven  which  hues  and  paves 
The  other  ? I am  too  forlorn. 

Too  shaken  : my  own  weakness  fools 
My  judgment,  and  my  spirit  whirls. 

Moved  from  beneath  with  doubt  and  fear. 

“Yet,”  said  I,  in  my  morn  of  youth. 

The  unsunned  freshness  of  my  strength, 

When  I went  forth  in  quest  of  truth, 

“ It  is  man’s  privilege  to  doubt. 

If  so  be  that  from  doubt  at  length. 

Truth  may  stand  forth  unmoved  of  change. 

An  image  with  profulgent  brows, 

And  perfect  limbs,  as  from  the  storm 

Of  running  fires  and  fluid  range 

Of  lawless  airs  at  last  stood  out 

This  excellence  and  solid  form  < 

Of  constant  beauty.  For  the  Ox 

Feeds  in  the  herb,  and  sleeps,  or  fills 

The  horned  valleys  all  about. 

And  hollows  of  the  fringed  hills 
In  summerheats,  with  placid  lows 
Unfearing,  till  his  own  blood  flows 
About  his  hoof  And  in  the  flocks 
The  lamb  rejoiceth  in  the  year. 

And  raceth  freely  with  his  fere. 

And  answers  to  his  mother’s  calls 
From  the  flow'ered  furrow.  In  a time. 

Of  which  he  wots  not,  run  short  pains 
Through  his  warm  heart : and  then,  from 
whence 

He  knows  not,  on  his  light  there  falls 
A shadow;  and  his  native  slope 
Where  he  was  wont  to  leap  and  climb, 

Floats  from  his  sick  and  filmed  eyes. 

And  something  in  the  darkness  draws 
His  forehead  earthward,  and  he  dies. 

Shall  men  live  thus,  in  joy  and  hope 
As  a young  lamb,  who  cannot  dream, 

Living,  but  that  he  shall  live  on  ? 

Shall  we  not  look  into  the  laws 

Of  life  and  death,  and  things  that  seem. 

And  things  that  be,  and  analyze 
Our  double  nature,  and  compare 
All  creeds  till  we  have  found  the  one. 

If  one  there  be  ? ” Ay  me  ! I fear 
All  may  not  doubt,  but  everywhere 
Some  must  clasp  Idols.  Yet,  my  God, 

Whom  call  I Idol?  Let  thy  dove 
Shadow  me  over,  and  my  sins 
Be  unremembered,  and  thy  love 
Enlighten  me.  O teach  me  yet 
Somewhat  before  the  heavy  clod 
Weighs  on  me,  and  the  busy  fret 
Of  that  sharp-headed  worm  begins 
In  the  gross  blackness  underneath. 

O weary  life  ! O w’eary  death  ! 

O spirit  and  heart  made  desolate  1 
O damned  vacillating  state  ! 

rr 1- 


286  THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE,---  TO . — SONGS, 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 

His  eyes  in  eclipse, 

Pale-cold  his  lips, 

The  light  of  his  hopes  unfed, 

Mute  his  tongue, 

His  bow  unstrung 
With  the  tears  he  hath  shed, 

Backward  drooping  his  graceful  head. 

Love  is  dead : 

His  last  arrow  is  sped  ; 

He  hath  not  another  dart ; 

Go  — carry  him  to  his  dark  deathbed  ; 

Bury  him  in  the  cold,  cold  heart  — 

Love  is  dead. 

O truest  love  ! art  thou  forlorn, 

And  unrevenged  ? thy  pleasant  W’iles 
Forgotten,  and  thine  innocent  joy? 

Shall  hollow-hearted  apathy. 

The  cruellest  form  of  perfect  scorn, 

With  languor  of  most  hateful  smiles. 

For  ever  write, 

In  the  withered  light 
Of  the  tearless  eye. 

An  epitaph  that  all  may  spy? 

No  ! sooner  she  herself  shall  die. 

For  her  the  showers  shall  not  fall. 

Nor  the  round  sun  shine  that  shineth  to  all; 

Her  light  shall  into  darkness  change  ; 

For  her  the  green  grass  shall  not  spring. 

Nor  the  rivers  flow,  nor  the  sweet  birds  sing, 
Till  Love  have  his  full  revenge. 


TO . 

Sainted  Juliet ! dearest  name  ! 

If  to  love  be  life  alone, 

Divinest  Juliet, 

I love  thee,  and  live  ; and  yet 
Love  unreturned  is  like  the  fragrant  flame 
Folding  the  slaughter  of  the  sacrifice 

Offered  to  gods  upon  an  altar-throne  ; 
My  heart  is  lighted  at  thine  eyes, 

Changed  into  fire,  and  blowm  about  with  sighs. 


SONG. 


II. 

Death  standeth  by ; 

She  w’ill  not  die  ; 

With  glazed  eye  * 

She  looks  at  her  grave  ; she  cannot  sleep; 

Ever  alone 

She  maketh  her  moan  : 

She  cannot  speak  : she  can  only  weep, 

For  she  will  not  hope. 

The  thick  snow  falls  on  her  flake  by  flake. 

The  dull  wave  mourns  dow'n  the 
slope. 

The  world  will  not  change,  and  her  heart  will 
not  break. 


SONG. 


The  lint  white  and  the  throstlecock 
Have  voices  sweet  and  clear ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
They  from  the  blosmy  brere 
Call  to  the  fleeting  year. 

If  that  he  w’ould  them  hear 
And  stay. 

Alas  ! that  one  so  beautiful 
Should  have  so  dull  an  ear  I 

II. 

Fair  year,  fair  year,  thy  children  call, 
But  thou  art -deaf  as  death  ; 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 
When  thy  light  perisheth 
That  from  thee  issueth, 

Our  life  evanisheth ; 

O,  stay  1 

Alas  ! that  lips  so  cruel-dumb 
Should  have  so  sweet  a breath  ! 

III. 

Fair  year,  with  brows  of  royal  love 
Thou  comest,  as  a king. 

All  in  the  bloomed  Maj'. 
Thy  golden  largess  fling. 

And  longer  hear  us  sing  ; 

Though  thou  art  fleet  of  wing, 

Yet  stay. 

Alas  ! that  eyes  so  full  of  light 
Should  be  so  wandering  ! 


I. 

I’  THE  glooming  light 
Of  middle  night 
So  cold  and  white. 

Worn  Sorrow  sits  by  the  moaning  wave. 
Beside  her  are  laid 
Her  mattock  and  spade, 

For  she  hath  half  delved  her  own  deep  grave. 
Alone  she  is  there  : 

The  white  clouds  drizzle  : her  hair  falls  loose  : 

Her  shoulders  are  bare  ; 

Her  tears  are  mixed  w'ith  the  beaded  dews. 


IV. 

Thy  locks  are  all  of  sunny  sheen 
In  rings  of  gold  yronne,* 

All  in  the  bloomed  May. 

We  pri’thee  pass  not  on  ; 

If  thou  dost  leave  the  sun. 

Delight  is  w'ith  thee  gone 
O,  stay  ! 

Thou  art  the  fairest  of  thy  feres. 

We  pri’thee  pass  not  on.  • 

* “ His  crisp^  hair  in  ringis  was  yronne.” 

Chaucer,  Knightes  Tale. 


SOJVG,  — NOTHING  WILL  DIE.  — ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE.  287 


SONG. 


Every  day  hath  its  night : 

Every  night  its  morn  : 
Thorough  dark  and  bright 
Winged  hours  are  borne  ; 
Ah  ! welaway  ! 
Seasons  flower  and  fade  ; 
Golden  calm  and  storm 
Mingle  day  by  day. 
There  is  no  bright  form 
Doth  not  cast  a shade  — 
Ah  ! welaway  I 


II. 

When  we  laugh,  and  our  mirth 
Apes  the  happy  vein, 

We  ’re  so  kin  to  earth, 
Pleasaunce  fathers  pain  — 
Ah  ! welaway  ! 
Madness  laugheth  loud  : 
Laughter  bringeth  tears  : 

Eyes  are  worn  away 
Till  the  end  of  fears 
Cometh  in  the  shroud. 

Ah  ! welaway ! 

III. 

All  is  change,  woe  or  weal ; 

Joy  is  Sorrow’s  brother  ; 
Grief  and  gladness  steal 
Symbols  of  each  other : 

Ah  ! welaway  ! 

Larks  in  heaven’s  cope 
Sing  : the  culvers  mourn 
All  the  livelong  day. 

Be  not  all  forlorn  : 

Let  us  weep  in  hope  — 

Ah  ! welaway  1 


NOTHING  WILL  DIE, 

When  will  the  stream  be  aweary  of  flowing 
Under  my  eye  ? 

When  will  the  wind  be  aweary  of  blowing 
Over  the  sky  ? 

When  will  the  clouds  be  aweary  of  fleeting  ? 
When  will  the  heart  be  aweary  of  beating? 
And  nature  die  ? 

Never,  O never  ! nothing  will  die  ; 

The  stream  flows, 

The  wind  blows. 

The  cloud  fleets, 

The  heart  beats. 

Nothing  will  die. 

Nothing  will  die  ; 

All  things  will  change 
Through  eternity. 

’T  is  the  world’s  winter ; 

Autumn  and  summer 
Are  gone  long  ago. 

Earth  is  dry  to  the  centre. 

But  spring  a new  comer  — 


A spring  rich  and  strange, 

Shall  make  the  winds  blow 
Round  and  round, 

Through  and  through, 
Here  and  there. 

Till  the  air 
And  the  ground 
Shall  be  filled  with  life  anew. 

The  world  was  never  made  ; 

It  will  change,  but  it  will  not  fade. 

So  let  the  wind  range  ; 

For  even  and  morn 
Ever  will  be 
Through  eternity. 

Nothing  was  born  ; 

Nothing  will  die  ; 

All  things  will  change. 


ALL  THINGS  WILL  DIE. 


Clearly  the  blue  river  chimes  in  its  flowing 
Under  my  eye; 

Warmly  and  broadly  the  south  winds  are 
blowing 
Over  the  sky. 

One  after  another  the  white  clouds  are  fleet- 
ing  : 

Every  heart  this  May  morning  in  joyance  is 
beating 
Full  merrily ; 

Yet  all  things  must  die. 

The  stream  will  cease  to  flow  ; 

The  wind  will  cease  to  blow  ; 

The  clouds  will  cease  to  fleet ; 

The  heart  will  cease  to  beat ; 

For  all  things  must  die. 


All  things  must  die. 

Spring  will  come  nevermore. 

O,  vanity  ! 

Death  waits  at  the  door. 

See  ! our  friends  are  all  forsaking 
The  wine  and  merrymaking. 

We  are  called  — we  must  go. 
Laid  low,  very  low. 

In  the  dark  we  must  lie. 

The  merry  glees  are  still ; 

The  voice  of  the  bird 
Shall  no  more  be  heard, 

Nor  the  vyind  on  the  hill. 

O,  misery  ! 

Hark  ! death  is  calling 
While  I speak  to  ye. 

The  jaw  is  falling. 

The  red  cheek  paling. 

The  strong  limbs  failing  ; ^ 

Ice  with  the  warm  blood  mixing; 
The  eyeballs  fixing. 

Nine  times  goes  the  passing  bell 
Ye  merry  souls,  farewell. 


The  old  earth 
Had  a birth, 

As  all  men  know 
Long  ago. 

And  the  old  earth  must  die* 


288  HERO  TO  LEA.VDER.  — THE  MYSTIC. --THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


So  let  the  warm  winds  range, 

And  the  blue  wave  beat  the  shore ; 
For  even  and  morn 
Ye  will  never  see 
Through  eternity. 

All  things  were  born. 

Ye  will  come  nevermore, 

For  all  things  must  die. 


HERO  TO  LEANDER. 

O GO  not  yet,  my  love  I 
The  night  is  dark  and  vast ; 

The  white  moon  is  hid  in  her  heaven  above. 
And  the  waves  climb  high  and  fast. 

O,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  once  again. 

Lest  thy  kiss  should  be  the  last ! 

O kiss  me  ere  we  part ; 

Grow  closer  to  my  heart  I 
My  heart  is  warmer  surely  than  the  bosom 
of  the  main. 

O joy  ! O bliss  of  blisses  I 
My  heart  of  hearts  art  thou. 

Come  bathe  me  with  thy  kisses, 

My  eyelids  and  my  brow. 

Hark  how  the  wild  rain  hisses. 

And  the  loud  sea  roars  below. 

Thy  heart  beats  through  thy  rosy  limbs, 

So  gladly  doth  it  stir  ; 

Thine  eye  in  drops  of  gladness  swims. 

I have  bathed  thee  with  the  pleasant 
myrrh  ; 

Thy  locks  are  dripping  balm  ; 

Thou  shah  not  wander  hence  to-night, 

1 ’ll  stay  thee  with  my  kisses. 

To-night  the  roaring  brine 
Will  rend  thy  golden  tresses  ; 

The  ocean  with  the  morrow  light 

Will  be  both  blue  and  calm  ; 

And  the  billow  will  embrace  thee  with  a kiss 
as  soft  as  mine. 

No  Western  odors  wander 

On  the  black  and  moaning  sea, 

And  when  thou  art  dead,  Leander 
My  soul  must  follow  thee  ! 

O go  not  yet,  my  love  ! 

Thy  voice  is  sweet  and  low ; 

The  deep  salt  wave  breaks  in  above 
Those  marble  steps  below. 

The  turret-stairs  are  wet 
That  lead  into  the  sea. 

Leander ! go  not  yet. 

The  pleasant  stars  have  set : 

O,  go  not,  go  not  yet. 

Or  I will  follow  thee  I 


THE  MYSTIC. 

Angels  have  talked  with  him,  and  showed 
him  thrones : 

Ye  knew  him  not;  he  was  notone  of  ye, 

Ye  scorned  him  with  an  undiscerning  scorn  : 
Ye  could  not  read  the  marvel  in  his  eye, 


The  still  serene  abstraction  : he  hath  felt 
The  vanities  of  after  and  before  ; 

Albeit,  his  spirit  and  his  secret  heart 
The  stern  experiences  of  converse  lives. 
The  linked  woes  of  many  a fiery  change 
Had  purified,  and  chastened,  and  made  free. 
Always  there  stood  before  him,  night  and  day. 
Of  wayward  vary-colored  circumstance 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 

Colossal,  without  form,  or  sense,  or  sound, 
Dim  shadows  but  un waning  presences 
Fourfaced  to  four  corners  of  the  sky  : 

And  yet  again,  three  shadows,  fronting  one. 
One  forward,  one  respectant,  three  but  one  ; 
And  yet  again,  again  and  evermore. 

For  the  two  first  were  not,  but  only  seemed. 
One  shadow  in  the  midst  of  a great  light. 
One  reflex  from  eternity  on  time, 

One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm. 
Awful  with  most  invariable  eyes. 

For  him  the  silent  congregated  hours, 
Daughters  of  time,  divinely  tall,  beneath 
Severe  and  youthful  brows,  with  shining  eyes 
Smiling  a godlike  smile  (the  innocent  light 
Of  earliest  youth  pierced  through  and  through 
with  all 

Keen  knowledges  of  low-embowed  eld) 
Upheld,  and  ever  hold  aloft  the  cloud 
Which  droops  low-hung  on  either  gate  of  life. 
Both  birth  and  death  : he  in  the  centre  fixt, 
Saw  far  on  each  side  through  the  grated  gates 
Most  pale  and  clear  and  lovely  distances. 

He  often  lying  broad  awake,  and  yet 
Remaining  from  the  body,  and  apart. 

In  intellect  and  power  and  w ill,  hath  heard 
Time  flowing  in  the  middle  of  the  night. 

And  all  things  creeping  to  a day  of  doom. 
How  could  ye  know  him?  Ye  were  yet  within 
The  narrower  circle:  he  had  wellnigh  reached 
The  last,  which  with  a region  of  white  flame. 
Pure  without  heat,  into  a larger  air 
Upburning,  and  an  ether  of  Mack  blue, 
Investeth  and  ingirds  all  other  lives. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 


Voice  of  the  summer  wind, 

Joy  of  the  summer  plain. 

Life  of  the  summer  hours, 

Carol  clearly,  bound  along. 

No  Tithon  thou  as  poets  feign 
(Shame  fall  ’em  they  are  deaf  and  blind). 
But  an  insect  lithe  and  strong. 

Bowing  the  seeded  summer  flow'ers. 

Prove  their  falsehood  and  thy  quarrel, 
Vaulting  on  thine  airy  feet. 

Clap  thy  shielded  sides  and  carol, 

Carol  clearly,  chirrup  sweet. 

Thou  art  a mailed  warrior  in  youth  and 
strength  complete ; 

Armed  cap-a-pie 
Full  fair  to  see  ; 

Unknowing  fear. 

Undreading  loss, 


LOV'E,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFULNESS.— LOVE  AND  SORROJV.  2H9 


A gallant  cavalier, 

Sans  peur  et  sans  reprocke^ 

In  sunlight  and  in  shadow, 

The  Bayard  of  the  meadow. 

II. 

I would  dwell  with  thee, 

Merry  grasshopper. 

Thou  art  so  glad  and  free, 

And  as  light  as  air  ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  or  tears. 

Thou  hast  no  compt  of  years, 

No  withered  immortality. 

But  a short  youth  sunny  and  free. 

Carol  clearly,  bound  along, 

Soon  thy  joy  is  over, 

A summer  of  loud  song, 

And  slumbers  in  the  clover. 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil 
In  thine  hour  of  love  and  revel. 

In  thy  heat  of  summer  pride. 

Pushing  the  thick  roots  aside 
Of  the  singing  flowered  grasses, 

That  brush  thee  with  their  silken  tresses? 
What  hast  thou  to  do  with  evil. 

Shooting,  singing,  ever  springing 
In  and  out  the  emerald  glooms, 

Ever  leaping,  ever  singing, 

Lighting  on  the  golden  blooms  ? 


LOVE,  PRIDE,  AND  FORGETFUL- 
NESS. 

Ere  yet  my  heart  was  sweet  Love’s  tomb, 
Love  labored  honey  busily. 

I was  the  hive,  and  Love  the  bee. 

My  heart  the  honeycomb. 

One  very  dark  and  chilly  night 
Pride  came  beneath  and  held  a light. 

The  cruel  vapors  went  through  all. 

Sweet  Love  was  withered  in  his  cell : 

Pride  took  Love’s  sweets,  and  by  a spell 
Did  change  them  into  gall  ; 

And  Memory,  though  fed  by  Pride, 

Did  wax  so  thin  on  gall. 

Awhile  she  scarcely  lived  at  all. 

What  marvel  that  she  died  ? 


CHORUS 

IN  AN  UNPUBLISHED  DRAMA,  WRITTEN 
VERY  EARLY. 

The  varied  earth,  the  moving  heaven. 

The  rapid  waste  of  roving  sea. 

The  fountain-pregnant  mountains  riven 
To  shapes  of  wildest  anarchy. 

By  secret  fire  and  midnight  storms 
That  wander  round  their  windy  cones. 
The  subtle  life,  the  countless  forms 
Of  living  things,  the  wondrous  tones 
Of  man  and  beast  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


The  day,  the  diamonded  night,  r 

The  echo,  feeble  child  of  sound, .. 

The  heavy  thunder’s  griding  migh.|- 
The  herald  lightning’s  starry  bound, 

The  vocal  spring  of  bursting  bloom. 

The  naked  summer’s  glowing  birth. 

The  troublous  autumn’s  sallow  gloom. 

The  hoarhead  winter  paving  earth 
With  sheeny  white,  are  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 

Each  sun  which  from  the  centre  flings 
Grand  music  and  redundant  fire. 

The  burning  belts,  the  mighty  rings. 

The  murm’rous  planets’  rolling  choir. 

The  globe-filled  arch  that,  cleaving  air. 

Lost  in  its  own  effulgence  sleeps, 

The  lawless  comets  as  they  glare 
And  thunder  through  the  sapphire  deeps 
In  wayward  strength,  and  full  of  strange 
Astonishment  and  boundless  change. 


LOST  HOPE. 

You  cast  to  ground  the  hope  which  once  was 
mine  : 

But  did  the  while  yourharsh  decree  deplore. 
Embalming  with  sweet  tears  the  vacant  shrine. 
My  heart,  where  Hope  had  been  and  was 
no  more. 

So  on  an  oaken  sprout 
A goodly  acorn  grew  ; 

But  winds  from  heaven  shook  the  acorn  out. 
And  filled  the  cup  with  dew. 


THE  TEARS  OF  HEAVEN. 

Heaven  weeps  above  the  earth  all  night  till 
morn. 

In  darkness  weeps  as  all  ashamed  to  weep, 

Becau.se  the  earth  hath  made  her  state  forlorn 

With  self-wrought  evil  of  unnumbered  years. 

And  doth  the  fruit  of  her  dishonor  reap. 

And  all  the  day  heaven  gathers  back  her 
tears, 

Into  her  own  blue  eyes  so  clear  and  deep, 

And  showering  down  the  glory  of  lightsome 
day, 

Smiles  on  the  earth’s  worn  brow  to  win  her 
if  she  may. 


LOVE  AND  SORROW. 

O MAIDEN,  fresher  than  the  first  green  leaf 
With  which  the  fearful  springtide  flecks  the 
lea. 

Weep  not,  Almeida,  that  I said  to  thee 
That  thou  hast  half  my  heart,  for  bitter  grief 
Doth  hold  the  other  half  in  sovranty. 

Thou  art  my  heart’s  sun  in  love’s  crystalline  : 
Yet  on  both  sides  at  once  thou  canst  not 
shine ; 


ioo  TO  A LADY  SLEEPING.  — SONNE TS.  — LOVE. 


Thine  is  the  bright  side  of  my  heart,  and 
thine 

My  heart's  day,  but  the  shadow  of  my  heart. 
Issue  of  its  own  substance,  my  heart’s  night 
Thou  canst  not  lighten  even  with  tky  light. 
All-powerful  in  beauty  as  thou  art. 

Almeida,  if  my  heart  were  substanceless,  _ 
Then  might  thy  rays  pass  through  to  the 
other  side, 

So  swiftly,  that  they  nowhere  would  abide. 
But  lose  themselves  in  utter  emptiness. 
Half-light,  half-shadow,  let  my  spirit  sleep; 
They  never  learned  to  love  who  never  knew 
to  weep. 


TO  A LADY  SLEEPING. 

O THOU  whose  fringed  lids  I gaze  upon. 
Through  whose  dim  brain  the  winged  dreams 
are  borne, 

Unroof  the  shrines  of  clearest  vision, 

In  honor  of  the  silver-flecked  morn  ; 

Long  hath  the  white  wave  of  the  virgin  light 
Driven  back  the  billow  of  the  dreamful  dark. 
Thou  all  unwittingly  prolongest  night, 
Though  long  ago  listening  the  poised  lark, 
With  eyes  dropt  downward  through  the  blue 
serene, 

Over  heaven’s  parapet  the  angels  lean. 


SONNET. 

Could  I outwear  my  present  state  of  woe 
With  one  brief  winter,  and  indue  i’  the  spring 
Hues  of  fresh  youth,  and  mightily  outgrow 
The  wan  dark  coil  of  faded  suffering  — 

Forth  in  the  pride  of  beauty  issuing 
A sheeny  snake,  the  light  of  vernal  bowers. 
Moving  his  crest  to  all  sweet  plots  of  flovyers 
And  watered  valleys  where  the  young  birds 
sing  ; 

Could  I thus  hope  my  lost  delight’s  renewing, 
I straightly  would  command  the  tears  to  creep 
From  my  charged  lids  ; but  inwardly  I weep  ; 
Some  vital  heat  as  yet  my  heart  is  wooing  : 
That  to  itself  hath  drawn  the  frozen  rain 
From  my  cold  eyes,  and  melted  it  again. 


SONNET. 

Though  Night  hath  climbed  her  peak  of 
highest  noon. 

And  bitter  blasts  the  screaming  autumn  whirl. 
All  night  through  archways  of  the  bridged 
pearl, 

And  portals  of  pure  silver,  walks  the  moon. 
Walk  on,  my  soul,  nor  crouch  to  agony, 

Turn  cloud  to  light,  and  bitterness  to  joy, 
And  dross  to  gold  with  glorious  alchemy. 
Basing  thy  throne  above  the  world’s  annoy. 
Reign  thou  above  the  storms  of  sorrow  and 
ruth 


That  roar  beneath  ; unshaken  peace  hath 
won  thee  ; 

So  shalt  thou  pierce  the  woven  glooms  of 
truth  ; 

So  sliall  the  blessing  of  the  meek  be  on  thee  ; 
So  in  thine  hour  of  dawn,  the  body’s  youth. 
An  honorable  eld  shall  come  upon  thee. 


SONNET. 

Shall  the  hag  Evil  die  with  child  of  Good, 
Or  propagate  again  her  loathed  kind. 
Thronging  the  cells  of  the  diseased  mind. 
Hateful  w'ith  hanging  cheeks,  a withered 
brood, 

Though  hourly  pastured  on  the  salient  blood? 
O that  the  wind  which  bloweth  cold  or  heat 
Would  shatter  and  o’erbear  the  brazen  beat 
Of  their  broad  vans,  and  in  the  solitude 
Of  middle  space  confound  them,  and  blow 
back 

Their  wild  cries  down  their  cavern  throats, 
and  slake 

With  points  of  blast-borne  hail  their  heated 
eyne  ! 

So  their  wan  limbs  no  more  might  come 
between 

The  moon  and  the  moon’s  reflex  in  the  night. 
Nor  blot  with  floating  shades  the  solar  light. 


SONNET. 

The  pallid  thunder-stricken  sigh  for  gain, 
Down  an  ideal  stream  they  ever  float. 

And  sailing  on  Pactolus  in  a boat, 

Drown  soul  and  sense,  while  wistfully  they 
strain 

.Weak  eyes  upon  the  glistening  sands  that 
robe 

The  understream.  The  wise,  could  he  be- 
hold 

Cathedraled  caverns  of  thick-ribbed  gold 
And  branching  silvers  of  the  central  globe. 
Would  marvel  from  so  beautiful  a sight 
How  scorn  and  ruin,  pain  and  hate  could 
flow : 

But  Hatred  in  a gold  cave  sits  below ; 
Pleached  with  her  hair,  in  mail  of  argent 
light 

Shot  into  gold,  a snake  her  forehead  clips. 
And  skins  the  color  from  her  trembling  lips. 


LOVE. 


Thou,  from  the  first,  unborn,  undying  love. 
Albeit  we  gaze  not  on  thy  glories  near. 
Before  the  face  of  God  didst  breathe  and 
move. 

Though  night  and  pain  and  ruin  and  death 
rtign  here. 


THE  KRA  KEN.  — ENGLISH  IV A R-SONG.  — NA  TIONA  L SONG.  291 


Tliou  foldest,  like  a golden  atmosphere, 

The  very  throne  of  the  eternal  God  : 

Passing  through  thee  the  edicts  of  his  fear 
Are  mellowed  into  music,  borne  abroad 
By  the  loud  winds,  though  they  uprend  the 
sea, 

Even  from  its  central  deeps  : thine  empery 
Is  over  all  ; thou  wilt  not  brook  eclipse  ; 
Thou  goest  and  returnest  to  His  lips 
Like  lightning  : thou  dost  ever  brood  above 
The  silence  of  all  hearts,  unutterable  Love. 

II. 

To  know  thee  is  all  wisdom,  and  old  age 
Is  but  to  know  thee  : dimly  we  behold  thee 
Athwart  the  veils  of  evils  which  infold  thee. 
We  beat  upon  our  aching  hearts  in  rage  ; 

We  cry  for  thee  ; we  deem  the  world  thy 
tomb. 

As  dwellers  in  lone  planets  look  upon 
The  mighty  disk  of  their  majestic  sun, 
Hollowed  in  awful  chasms  of  wheeling  gloom. 
Making  their  day  dim,  so  we  gaze  on  thee. 
Come,  thou  of  many  crowns,  w'hite-robed  love. 
Oh  ! rend  the  veil  in  twain ; all  men  adore 
thee  ; 

Heaven  crieth  after  thee  ; earth  waiteth  for 
thee  ; 

Breathe  on  thy  winged  throne,  and  it  shall 
move 

In  music  and  in  light  o’er  land  and  sea. 

III. 

And  now  — methinks  I gaze  upon  thee  now. 
As  on  a serpent  in  his  agonies 
Awe-stricken  Indians  ; what  time  laid  low 
And  crushing  the  thick  fragrant  reeds  he  lies. 
When  the  new  year  warm-breathed  on  the 
_ Earth, 

Waiting  to  light  him  with  her  purple  skies. 
Calls  to  him  by  the  fountain  to  uprise. 
Already  with  the  pangs  of  a new  birth 
Strain  the  hot  spheres  of  his  convulsed  eyes. 
And  in  his  writhings  awful  hues  begin 
To  wander  down  his  sable-sheeny  sides, 

Like  light  on  troubled  waters  : from  within 
Anon  he  rusheth  forth  with  merry  din, 

And  in  him  light  and  joy  and  strength  abides  ; 
And  from  his  brows  a crown  of  living  light 
Looks  through  the  thick-stemmed  woods  by 
day  and  night. 


THE  KRAKEN. 

Below  the  thunders  of  the  upper  deep  ; 

Far,  far  beneath  in  the  abysmal  sea, 

His  ancient,  dreamless,  uninvaded  sleep. 
The  Kraken  sleepeth  : faintest  sunlights  flee 
About  his  shadowy  sides  : above  him  swell 
Huge  sponges  of  millennial  growth  and 
height ; 

And  far  away  into  the  sickly  light, 

From  many  a wondrous  grot  and  secret  cell 
Unnumbered  and  enormous  polypi 
Winnow  with  giant  fins  the  slumbering  green. 


There  hath  he  lain  for  ages  and  will  lie 
Battening  upon  huge  seaworms  in  his  sleep, 
Until  the  latter  fire  shall  heat  the  deep  ; 
Then  once  by  man  and  angels  to  be  seen. 

In  roaring  he  shall  rise  and  on  the  surface  die. 


ENGLISH  WAR-SONG. 

Who  fears  to  die  ? Who  fears  to  die  ? 

Is  there  any  here  who  fears  to  die? 

He  shall  find  what  he  fears ; and  none  shall 
grieve 

For  the  man  who  fears  to  die  ; 

But  the  withering  scorn  of  the  many  shall 
cleave 

To  the  man  who  fears  to  die. 

CHORUS. 

Shout  for  England  ! 

Ho  ! for  England  ! 

George  for  England ! 

Merry  England  ! 

England  for  aye ! 

The  hollow  at  heart  shall  crouch  forlorn. 
He  shall  eat  the  bread  of  common  scorn  ; 
It  shall  be  steeped  in  the  salt,  salt  tear, 

Shall  be  steeped  in  his  own  salt  tear : 

Far  better,  far  better  he  never  were  born 
Than  to  shame  merry  England  here. 

Cho.  — Shout  for  England  ! etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 

Hark  ! he  shouteth  — the  ancient  enemy  1 
On  the  ridge  of  the  hill  his  banners  rise ; 

They  stream  like  fire  in  the  skies  ; 

Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high 
Till  it  dazzle  and  blind  his  eyes. 

Cho.  — Shout  for  England  ! etc. 

Come  along  ! we  alone  of  the  earth  are  free  ; 
The  child  in  our  cradles  is  bolder  than  he  ; 
For  where  is  the  heart  and  strength  of  slaves? 

Oh  ! where  is  the  strength  of  slaves  ? 

He  is  weak  ! we  are  strong  : he  a slave,  we 
are  free  ; 

Come  along ! we  will  dig  their  graves. 
Cho.  — Shout  for  England  ! etc. 

There  standeth  our  ancient  enemy  ; 

Will  he  dare  to  battle  with  the  free  ? 

Spur  along  ! spur  amain  ! charge  to  the  fight ‘. 

Charge  ! charge  to  the  fight ! 

Hold  up  the  Lion  of  England  on  high  ! 

Shout  for  God  and  our  right ! 

Cho.  — Shout  for  England  ! etc. 


NATIONAL  SONG. 

There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  hearts  like  English  hearts, 
Such  hearts  of  oak  as  they  be. 


DUALISMS. — WE  ARE  FREE.  — THE  SEA  FAIRIES. 


There  is  no  land  like  England 
Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  men  like  Englishmen, 

So  tall  and  bold  as  they  be. 

CHORUS. 

For  the  French  the  Pope  may  shrive  ’em, 

For  the  devil  a whit  we  heed  ’em  ; 

As  for  the  French,  God  speed  ’em 
Unto  their  heart’s  desire, 

And  the  merry  devil  drive  ’em 
Through  the  water  and  the  fire. 

FULL  CHORUS. 

Our  glory  is  our  freedom. 

We  lord  it  o’er  the  sea  ; 

We  are  the  sons  of  freedom, 

We  are  free. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  wives  like  English  wives, 

So  fair  and  chaste  as  they  be. 

There  is  no  land  like  England, 

Where’er  the  light  of  day  be  ; 

There  are  no  maids  like  English  maids. 

So  beautiful  as  they  be. 

Cho. — For  the'French,  etc. 


DUALISMS. 

Two  bees  within  a crystal  flowerbell  rocked. 
Hum  a lovelay  to  the  west-wind  at  noon- 
tide. 

Both  alike,  they  buzz  together, 

Both  alike,  they  hum  together. 

Through  and  through  the  flowered 
heather. 

Where  in  a creeping  cove  the  wave  unshocked 
Lays  itself  calm  and  wide. 

Over  a stream  two  birds  of  glancing 
feather 

Do  woo  each  other,  carolling  together. 
Both  alike,  they  glide  together. 

Side  by  side  ; 

Both  alike,  they  sing  together, 

Arching  blue-glossed  necks  beneath  the  pur- 
ple weather. 

Two  children  lovelier  than  Love  adown  the 
lea  are  singing, 

As  they  gambol,  lily-garlands  ever  stringing : 

Both  inblosm  white  silk  are  frocked  ; 
Like,  unlike,  they  roam  together 
Under  a summer  vault  of  golden  weather : 
Like,  unlike,  they  sing  together 
Side  by  side, 

MidMay’s  darling  golden  locked. 
Summer’s  tanling  diamond  eyed. 


WE  ARE  FREE. 

The  winds,  as  at  their  hour  of  birth. 
Leaning  upon  the  winged  sea, 


Breathed  low  around  the  rolling  earth 
With  mellow  preludes,  “ We  are  free.” 
The  streams  through  many  a lilied  row 
Down-carolling  to  the  crisped  sea, 
Low-tinkled  with  a bell-like  flow 
Atween  the  blossoms,  “We  are  free.” 


THE  SEA  FAIRIES.* 

Slow  sailed  the  weary  mariners,  and  saw 
Between  the  green  brink  and  the  running 
foam 

White  limbs  unrobed  in  a crystal  air. 

Sweet  faces,  rounded  arms,  and  bosoms  prest 
To  little  harps  of  gold : and  while  they  mused, 
Whispering  to  each  other  half  in  fear. 

Shrill  music  reached  them  on  the  middle  sea. 

SONG. 

Whither  away,  whither  away,  whither 
away  ? Fly  no  more  : 

Whither  away  wi’  the  singing  sail  ? whith- 
er away  wi’  the  oar  ? 

Whither  away  from  the  high  green  field  and 
the  hapv^  blossoming  shore 
Weary  mariners,  hither  away. 

One  and  all,  one  and  all. 

Weary  mariners,  come  and  play; 

We  will  sing  to  you  all  the  day  ; 

Furl  the  sail  and  the  foam  will  fall 
From  the  prow  ! One  and  all 
Furl  the  sail!  Drop  the  oar  I 
Leap  ashore. 

Know  danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  more. 
Whither  aw'ay  wi’  the  sail  and  the  oar? 
Drop  the  oar. 

Leap  ashore, 

Fly  no  more  ! 

Whither  away  w'i’  the  sail?  whither  away 
wi’  the  oar  ? 

Day  and  night  to  the  billow  the  fountain 
calls : 

Down  shower  the  gambolling  waterfalls 
From  wandering  over  the  lea  ; 

They  freshen  the  silvery-crimson  shells, 
And  thick  with  w^hite  bells  the  clover-hill 
swells 

High  over  the  full-toned  sea. 

Merrily  carol  the  revelling  gales 
Over  the  islands  free  : 

From  the  green  seabanks  the  rose  down 
trails 

To  the  happy  brimmed  sea. 

Come  hither,  come  hither  and  be  our  lords, 
For  merry  brides  are  we  : 

We  will  kiss  sweet  kisses,  and  speak  sweet 
words. 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten 
With  pleasure  and  love  and  revelry ; 

O listen,  listen,  your  eyes  shall  glisten. 
When  the  sharp  clear  twang  of  the  golden 
chords 

Runs  up  the  ridged  sea. 

• Original  form. 


Oi  peoi^Tc?.  — SONNET.  — TO  . 


Ye  will  not  find  so  happy  a shore, 

Weary  mariners  ! all  the  world  o’er ; 

O,  fly  no  more  ! 

Hearken  ye,  hearken  ye,  sorrow  shall 
darken  ye. 

Danger  and  trouble  and  toil  no  more  ; 
Whither  away  ? 

Drop  the  oar ; 

Hither  away 
Leap  ashore  ; 

O fly  no  more  — no  more  : 

Whither  awa}’,  whither  away,  whither  away 
with  the  sail  and  the  oar  ? 


OL  peorres. 


All  thoughts,  all  creeds,  all  dreams  are  true, 
All  visions  wild  and  strange  ; 


»93 

Man  is  the  measure  of  all  truth 
Unto  himself.  All  truth  is  change, 

All  men  do  walk  in  sleep,  and  all 
Have  faith  in  that  they  dream  : 

For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all, 

And  all  things  flow  like  a stream. 

II. 

There  is  no  rest,  no  calm,  no  pause. 

Nor  good  nor  ill,  nor  light  nor  shade, 

Nor  essence  nor  eternal  laws  : 

For  nothing  is,  but  all  is  made. 

But  if  I dream  that  all  these  are, 

They  are  to  me  for  that  1 dream  ; 

For  all  things  are  as  they  seem  to  all. 

And  all  things  flow  like  a stream. 

Argal  — this  very  opinion  is  only  true  rela- 
tively to  the  flowing  philosophers. 


POEMS  PUBLISHED  IN 
AND  OMITTED  IN 

SONNET. 

Mine  be  the  strength  of  spirit  fierce  and  free, 
Like  some  broad  river  rushing  down  alone. 
With  the  selfsame  impulse  wherewith  he  was 
thrown 

From  his  loud  fount  upon  the  echoing  lea  : — 
Which  with  increasing  might  doth  forward 
flee 

By  town,  and  tower,  and  hill,  and  cape,  and 
isle. 

And  in  the  middle  of  the  green  salt  sea 
Keeps  his  blue  waters  fresh  for  many  a mile. 
Mine  be  the  Power  which  ever  to  its  sway 
Will  win  the  wise  at  once,  and  by  degrees 
May  into  uncongenial  spirits  flow  ; 

Even  as  the  great  gulf  stream  of  Florida 
Floats  far  away  into  the  Northern  seas 
The  lavish  growths  of  southern  Mexico. 


TO  . 


All  good  things  have  not  kept  aloof. 
Nor  wandered  into  other  ways  ; 

I have  not  lacked  thy  mild  reproof. 

Nor  golden  largess  of  thy  praise. 

But  life  is  full  of  weary  days. 

II. 

Shake  hands,  my  friend,  across  the  brink 
Of  that  deep  grave  to  which  I go. 

Shake  hands  once  more  : I cannot  sink 
So  far — far  down,  but  I shall  know 
Thy  voice,  and  answer  from  below. 


THE  EDITION  OF  1833, 
LATER  EDITIONS. 

III. 

When,  in  the  darkness  over  me. 

The  four-handed  mole  shall  scrape* 

Plant  thou  no  dusky  cypress-tree, 

Nor  wreathe  thy  cap  with  doleful  crape. 
But  pledge  me  in  the  flowing  grape. 

IV. 

And  when  the  sappy  field  and  wood 
Grow  green  beneath  the  showery  gray. 

And  rugged  barks  begin  to  bud. 

And  through  damp  holts,  new  flushed  with 
May. 

Ring  sudden  laughters  of  the  Jay  ; 

V. 

Then  let  wise  Nature  work  her  will. 

And  on  my  clay  the  darnels  grow. 

Come  only  when  the  days  are  still. 

And  at  my  headstone  whisper  low. 

And  tell  me  if  the  woodbines  blow, 

VI. 

If  thou  art  blest,  my  mother’s  smile 
Undimmed,  if  bees  are  on  the  wing:. 

Then  cease,  my  friend,  a little  while. 

That  I may  hear  the  throstle  sing 
His  bridal  song,  the  boast  of  spring. 

VII. 

Sweet  as  the  noise  in  parched  plains 
Of  bubbling  wells  l^iat  fret  the  stones 

(If  any  sense  m me  remains). 

Thy  words  will  be  ; thy  cheerful  tones 
As  welcome  to  my  crumbling  bones. 


/ 


BON’A  PA  R TE.  — SONNE  TS.  — THE  HESPERIDES. 


BONAPARTE. 

He  thought  to  quell  the  stubborn  hearts  of 
oak, 

Madman  ! — to  chain  with  chains,  and  bind 
with  bands 

That  island  , queen  that  sways  the  floods  and 
lands 

From  Ind  to  Ind,  but  in  fair  daylight  woke. 

When  from  her  wooden  walls,  lit  by  sure 
hands. 

With  thunders,  and  with  lightnings,  and  with 
smoke. 

Peal  after  peal,  the  British  battle  broke. 

Lulling  the  brine  against  the  Coptic  sands.  ^ 

We  taught  him  lowlier  moods,  when  Elsi- 
nore 

Heard  the  war  moan  along  the  distant  sea. 

Rocking  with  shattered  spars,  with  sudden 
fires 

Flamed  over  : at  Trafalgar  yet  once  more 

We  taught  him  : late  he  learned  humility 

Perforce,  like  those  whom  Gideon  schooled 
with  briers. 


SONNETS. 


0 BEAUTY,  passing  beauty  ! sweetest  Sweet ! 
How  canst  thou  let  me  waste  my  youth  in 

sighs  ? 

1 ©nly  ask  to  sit  beside  thy  feet. 

Thou  knowest  I dare  not  look  into  thine 
eyes. 

Might  I but  kiss  thy  hand  ! I dare  not  fold 
My  arms  about  thee  — scarcely  dare  to 
speak. 

And  nothing  seems  to  me  so  wild  and  bold, 
As  with  one  kiss  to  touch  thy  blessed  cheek. 
Methinks  if  I should  kiss  thee,  no  control 
Within  the  thrilling  brain  could  keep  afloat 
The  subtle  spirit.  Even  while  I spoke. 
The  bare  word  klss  hath  made  my  inner  soul 
To  tremble  like  a lutestring,  ere  the  note 
Hath  melted  in  the  silence  that  it  broke. 

II. 

But  were  I loved,  as  T desire  to  be. 

What  is  there  in  the  great  sphere  of  the  earth. 
And  range  of  evil  between  death  and  birth. 
That  I should  fear, — if  I were  loved  by 
thee  ? 

All  the  inner,  all  the  outer  world  of  pain 
Clear  Love  would  pierce  and  cleave,  if  thou 
wert  mine. 

As  I have  heard  that,  somewhere  in  the  main. 
Fresh- water  springs  come  up  through  bitter 
brine. 

’T  were  joy,  not  fear,  clasped  hand-in-hand 
with  thee, 

To  wait  for  death  — mute  — careless  of  all 
ills, 

Apart  upon  a mountain,  though  the  surge 
Of  some  new  deluge  from  a thousand  hills 
Flung  leagues  of  roaring  foam  into  the  gorge 
Below  us,  as  far  on  as  eye  could  see. 


THE  HESPERIDES. 

“ Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree.” 

C omits. 

The  North-wind  fall’n,  in  the  new-starrdd 
night 

Zidonian  Hanno,  voyaging  beyond 
The  hoary  promontory  of  Soloe 
Past  Thymiaterion,  in  calmed  bays. 

Between  the  southern  and  the  western  Horn, 
Heard  neither  warbling  of  the  nightingale. 
Nor  melody  of  the  Libyan  lotus  flute 
Blown  seaward  from  the  shore ; but  from  a 
slope 

That  ran  bloom-bright  into  the  Atlantic  blue. 
Beneath  a highland  leaning  down  a weight 
Of  cliffs,  and  zoned  below  with  cedar  shade. 
Came  voices,  like  the  voices  in  a dream. 
Continuous,  till  he  reached  the  outer  sea. 

SONG. 


The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hal- 
lowed fruit. 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily, 

Singing  airily, 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 

Round  about  all  is  mute. 

As  the  snow-field  on  the  mountain-peaks. 

As  the  sand-field  at  the  mountain-foot. 
Crocodiles  in  briny  creeks 
Sleep  and  stir  not : all  is  mute. 

If  ye  sing  not,  if  ye  make  false  measure. 

We  shall  lose  eternal  pleasure, 

Worth  eternal  want  of  rest. 

Laugh  not  loudly  : watch  the  treasure 
Of  the  wisdom  of  the  West. 

In  a corner  wisdom  whispers.  Five  and 
three 

(Let  it  not  be  preached  abroad)  make  an 
awful  mystery. 

For  the  blossom  unto  threefold  music  blow- 
eth  ; 

Evermore  it  is  born  anew  ; 

And  the  sap  to  threefold  music  floweth, 
From  the  root 
Drawn  in  the  dark, 

Up  to  the  fruit, 

Creeping  under  the  fragrant  bark. 

Liquid  gold,  honeysweet,  thro’  and  thro’. 
Keen-eyed  Sisters,  singing  airily, 

Looking  warily 
Every  way. 

Guard  the  apple  night  and  day. 

Lest  one  from  the  East  come  and  take  it 
away. 

II. 

Father  Hesper,  F ather  Hesper,  watch,  watch, 
ever  and  aye. 

Looking  under  silver  hair  with  a silver  eye. 
Father,  twinkle  not  thy  steadfast  sight ; 
Kingdoms  lapse,  and  climates  change,  and 
races  die  ; 

Honor  comes  with  mystery  ; 

Hoarded  wisdom  brings  delight. 


ROSALIND. 


Number,  tell  them  over  and  number 
How  many  the  mystic  fruit-tree  holds 
Lest  the  red-combed  dragon  slumber 
Rolled  together  in  purple  folds. 

Look  to  him,  father,  lest  he  wink,  and  the 
golden  apple  be  stol’n  away, 

For  his  ancient  heart  is  drunk  with  over- 
watchings night  and  day, 

Round  about  the  hallowed  fruit-tree  curled  — 
Sing  away,  sing  aloud  evermore  in  the  wind, 
without  stop. 

Lest  his  scaled  eyelid  drop. 

For  he  is  older  than  the  world. 

If  he  waken,  we  waken. 

Rapidly  levelling  eager  eyes. 

If  he  sleep,  we  sleep. 

Dropping  the  eyelid  over  the  eyes. 

If  the  golden  apple  be  taken. 

The  world  will  be  overwise. 

Five  links,  a golden  chain,  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 

Bound  about  the  golden  tree. 

III. 

F ather  Hesper,  F ather  Hesper,  watch,  watch, 
night  and  day. 

Lest  the  old  wound  of  the  world  be  healed. 
The  glory  unsealed. 

The  golden  apple  stolen  away. 

And  the  ancient  secret  revealed. 

Look  from  west  to  east  along  : 

Father,  old  Himala  weakens,  Caucasus  is 
bold  and  strong. 

Wandering  waters  unto  wandering  waters 
call ; 

Let  them  clash  together,  foam  and  fall. 

Out  of  watchings,  out  of  wiles. 

Comes  the  bliss  of  secret  smiles. 

All  things  are  not  told  to  all. 

Half-round  the  mantling  night  is  drawn. 
Purple  fringed  with  even  and  dawn, 

Hesper  hateth  Phosphor,  evening  hateth 
morn 

IV. 

Every  flower  and  every  fruit  the  redolent 
breath 

Of  this  warm  sea-wind  ripeneth. 

Arching  the  billow  in  his  sleep; 

But  the  land-wind  wandereth. 

Broken  by  the  highland  steep. 

Two  streams  upon  the  violet  deep  ; 

For  the  western  sun  and  the  western  star. 
And  the  low  west-wind,  breathing  afar. 

The  end  of  day  and  beginning  of  night 
Make  the  apple  holy  and  bright ; 

Holy  and  bright,  round  and  full,  bright  and 
blest. 

Mellowed  in  a land  of  rest ; 

Watch  it  warily  day  and  night  ; 

All  good  things  are  in  the  west. 

Till  mid  noon  the  cool  east  light 
Is  shut  out  by  the  tall  hillbrow; 

But  when  the  full-faced  sunset  yellowly 
Stays  on  the  flowering  arch  of  the  bough. 
The  luscious  fruitage  clustereth  mellowly, 
Golden-kernelled,  golden-cored. 


295 

Sunset-ripened  above  on  the  tree. 

'I'he  world  is  wasted  with  fire  and  sword. 
But  the  apple  of  gold  hangs  over  the  sea. 
Five  links,  a golden  chain  are  we, 

Hesper,  the  dragon,  and  sisters  three, 
Daughters  three. 

Bound  about 

The  gnarled  bole  of  the  charmed  tree. 

The  golden  apple,  the  golden  apple,  the  hal- 
lowed fruit. 

Guard  it  well,  guard  it  warily. 

Watch  it  warily. 

Singing  airily. 

Standing  about  the  charmed  root. 


ROSALIND. 


My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  frolic  falcon,  with  bright  eyes. 

Whose  free  delight,  from  any  height  of  rapid 
flight, 

Stoops  at  all  game  that  wing  the  skies, 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

My  bright-eyed,  wild-eyed  falcon,  whither, 
Careless  both  of  wind  and  weather. 

Whither  fly  ye,  what  game  spy  ye, 

Up  or  down  the  streaming  wind  ? 

II. 

The  quick  lark’s  closest-carolled  strains. 

The  shadow  rushing  up  the  sea. 

The  lightning  flash  atween  the  rains, 

The  sunlight  driving  down  the  lea, 

The  leaping  stream,  the  very  wind. 

That  will  not  stay,  upon  his  way. 

To  stoop  the  cowslip  to  the  plains, 

Is  not  so  clear  and  bold  and  free 
As  you,  my  falcon  Rosalind. 

You  care  not  for  another’s  pains, 

Because  you  are  the  soul  of  joy, 

Bright  metal  all  without  alloy. 

Life  shoots  and  glances  thro’  your  veins. 

And  flashes  off  a thousand  ways 
Through  lips  and  eyes  in  subtle  rays. 

Your  hawkeyes  are  keen  and  bright. 

Keen  with  triumph,  watching  still 
To  pierce  me  through  with  pointed  light; 
But  oftentimes  they  flash  and  glitter 
Like  sunshine  on  a dancing  rill, 

And  your  words  are  seeming-bitter. 

Sharp  and  few,  but  seeming-bitter 
From  excess  of  swift  delight. 

III. 

Come  down,  come  home,  my  Rosalind, 

My  gay  young  hawk,  my  Rosalind  : 

Too  long  you  keep  the  upper  skies  ; 

Too  long  you  roam  and  wheel  at  will  ; 

But  we  must  hood  your  random  eyes. 

That  care  not  whom  they  kill. 

And  your  cheek,  whose  brilliant  hue 
Is  so  sparkling-fresh  to  view. 

Some  red  heath-flower  in  the  dew, 

Touched  with  sunrise.  We  must  bind 


296  SONG.  — KA  TE.  — SONNE  TS. 


And  keep  you  fast,  my  Rosalind, 

Fast,  fast,  my  wild-eyed  Rosalind, 

And  clip  your  wings,  and  make  vou  love: 
When  we  have  lured  you  from  above, 

And  that  delight  of  frolic  flight,  by  day  or 
night. 

From  north  to  south  ; 

Will  bind  you  fast  in  silken  cords, 

And  kiss  away  the  bitter  words 
From  off  your  rosy  mouth.* 


SONG. 

Who  can  say 
Why  To-day 

To-morrow  will  be  yesterday  ? 

Who  can  tell 
Why  to  smell 

The  violet  recalls  the  dewy  prime 
Of  youth  and  buried  time  ? 

The  cause  is  nowhere  found  in  rhyme. 


KATE. 

I KNOW  her  by  her  angry  air, 

Her  bright  black  eyes,  her  bright  black  hair, 
Her  rapid  laughters  wild  and  shrill. 

As  laughters  of  the  woodpecker 
From  the  bosom  of  a hill. 

’T  is  Kate  — she  sayeth  what  she  will ; 
For  Kate  hath  an  unbridled  tongue, 

Clear  as  the  twanging  of  a harp. 

Her  heart  is  like  a throbbing  star. 

* Author’s  note.  — Perhaps  the  following  lines 
may  be  allowed  to  stand  as  a separate  poem  ; origi- 
nally they  made  part  of  the  text,  where  they  were 
manifestly  superfluous. 

MY  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Bold,  subtle,  careless  Rosalind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  know  no  strife 
Of  inward  woe  or  outward  fear ; 

To  whom  the  slope  and  stream  of  Life, 

The  life  before,  the  life  behind. 

In  the  ear,  from  far  and  near, 

Chimeth  musically  clear. 

My  falcon-hearted  Rosalind, 

Full-sailed  before  a vigorous  wind, 

Is  one  of  those  who  cannot  weep 
For  others’  woes,  but  overleap 
All  the  petty  shocks  and  fears 
That  trouble  life  in  early  years. 

With  a flash  of  frolic  scorn 
And  keen  delight,  that  never  falls 
Away  from  freshness,  self-upborne 
With  such  gladness  as,  whenever 
The  fresh-flushing  springtime  calls 
To  the  flooding  waters  cool. 

Young  fishes,  on  an  April  morn. 

Up  and  down  a rapid  river. 

Leap  the  little  waterfalls 
That  sing  into  the  pebbled  pool, 

My  happy  falcon,  Rosalind, 

Hath  daring  fancies  of  her  own. 

Fresh  as  the  dawn  before  the  day. 

Fresh  as  the  early  sea-smell  blown 
Through  vineyards  from  an  inland  bay. 

My  Rosalind,  my  Rosalind, 

Because  no  shadow  on  you  falls. 

Think  you  hearts  are  tennis  balls 
To  play  with,  wanton  Rosalind? 


Kate  hath  a spirit  ever  strung 
Like  a new  bow,  and  bright  and  sharp. 

As  edges  of  the  scymitar. 

Whence  shall  she  take  a fitting  mate.^ 
For  Kate  no  common  love  will  feel ; 
My  woman-soldier,  gallant  Kate, 

As  pure  and  true  as  blades  of  steel. 


Kate  saith  *‘the  world  is  void  of  might.” 
Kate  saith  “ the  men  are  gilded  flies.” 

Kate  snaps  her  fingers  at  my  vows ; 
Kate  will  not  hear  of  lovers’  sighs. 

I would  I were  an  armed  knight, 

Far  famed  for  well- won  enterprise, 

And  wearing  on  my  swarthy  brows 
The  garland  of  new-wreathed  emprise  : 
For  in  a moment  I would  pierce 
The  blackest  files  of  clanging  fight. 

And  strongly  strike  to  left  and  right. 

In  dreaming  of  my  lady’s  eyes. 

Oh  ! Kate  loves  well  the  bold  and  fierce ; 
But  none  are  bold  enough  for  Kate, 

She  cannot  find  a fitting  mate. 


SONNET 

WRITTEN  ON  HEARING  OF  THE  OUTBREAK 
OF  THE  POLISH  INSURRECTION. 

Blow  ye  the  trumpet,  gather  from  afar 
The  hosts  to  battle  : be  not  bought  and  sold. 
Arise,  brave  Poles,  the  boldest  of  the  bold  ; 
Break  through  your  iron  shackles  — fling 
them  far. 

O for  those  days  of  Piast,  ere  the  Czar 
Grew  to  his  strength  among  his  deserts  cold  ; 
When  even  to  Moscow’s  cupolas  were  rolled 
The  growing  murmurs  of  the  Polish  war  ! 
Now  must  your  noble  anger  blaze  out  more 
Than  when  from  Sobieski,  clan  by  clan, 

The  Moslem  myriads  fell,  and  fled  before  — 
Than  when  Zamoysky  smote  the  Tartar 
Khan  ; 

Than  earlier,  when  on  the  Baltic  shore 
Boleslas  drove  the  Pomeranian. 


SONNET 

ON  THE  RESULT  OF  THE  LATE  RUSSIAN 
INVASION  OF  POLAND. 

How  long,  O God,  shall  men  be  ridden  down. 
And  trampled  under  by  the  last  and  least 
Of  men  ? The  heart  of  Poland  hath  not 
ceased 

To  quiver,  though  her  sacred  blood  doth 
drown 

The  fields  ; and  out  of  every  mouldering  town 
Cries  to  Thee,  lest  brute  Power  be  increased, 
Till  that  o’ergrown  Barbarian  in  the  East 
Transgress  his  ample  bound  to  some  new 
crowm  : — 

Cries  to  Thee,  “ Lord,  how  long  shall  these 
things  be 


SONNET.  — A 

How  long  shall  the  icy-hearted  Muscovite 
Oppress  the  region  ? ” Us,  O J ust  and  Good, 
Forgive,  who  smiled  when  she  was  torn  in 
three  ; 

Us,  who  stand  now,  when  we  should  aid  the 
right  — • 

A matter  to  be  wept  with  tears  of  blood  ! 


SONNET. 

As  when  with  dov^cast  eyes  we  muse  and 
brood,  ' 

And  ebb  into  a former  life,  or  seem 
To  lapse  far  back  in  a confused  dream 
To  states  of  mystical  similitude  ; 

If  one  but  speaks  or  hems  or  stirs  his  chair, 
Ever  the  wonder  waxeth  more  and  more. 

So  that  we  say,  “ All  this  hath  been  before. 
All  this  been,  I know  not  when  or 

where.” 

So,  friend,  when  first  I looked  upon  your  face. 
Our  thought  gave  answer,  each  to  each,  so 
true. 

Opposed  mirrors  each  reflecting  each  — 
Altho’  I knew  not  in  what  time  or  place, 
Methought  that  I had  often  met  with  you. 
And  each  had  lived  in  the  other’s  mind  and 
speech. 


O DARLING  ROOM. 


O DARLING  room,  my  heart’s  delight, 
Dear  room,  the  apple  of  my  sight, 


NO  MORE.* 

0 SAD  No  More  I O sweet  No  More  I 
O strange  No  More  ! 

By  a mossed  brookbank  on  a stone 

1 smelt  a wildweed  flower  alone  ; 

There  was  a ringing  in  my  ears. 

And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with  tears. 
Surely  all  pleasant  things  had  gone  before. 
Low-buried  fathom  deep  beneath  with  thee. 
No  More  ! 


ANACREONTICS.* 

W iTH  roses  musky-breathed. 

And  drooping  daffodilly. 

And  silver-leaved  lily. 

And  ivy  darkly-w'reathed, 

* From  the  Gem,  a literary  annual,  for  1831. 


FRA  GMENT.  297 

With  thy  two  couches  soft  and  w'hite, 
There  is  no  room  so  exquisite. 

No  little  room  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 

II. 

For  I the  Nonnenwerth  have  seen. 

And  Oberwinter’s  vineyards  green. 
Musical  Lurlei ; and  between 
The  hills  to  Bingen  have  I been, 

Bingen  in  Darmstadt,  where  the  Rhen^ 
Curves  toward  Mentz,  a woody  scene. 

III. 

Yet  never  did  there  meet  my  sight. 

In  any  town  to  left  or  right, 

A little  room  so  exquisite. 

With  two  such  couches  soft  and  whit** 
Not  any  room  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  to  read,  wherein  to  write. 


TO  CHRISTOPHER  NORTH 

You  did  late  review  my  lays. 
Crusty  Christopher  ; 

You  did  mingle  blame  and  praise. 
Rusty  Christopher. 

When  I learnt  from  whom  it  came, 
I forgave  you  all  the  blame. 

Musty  Christopher ; 

I could  no^  forgive  the  praise. 
Fusty  Christopher. 


POEMS. 


I wove  a crown  before  her. 
For  her  I love  so  dearly, 

A garland  for  Lenora. 

With  a silken  cord  I bound  it. 
Lenora,  laughing  clearly 
A light  and  thrilling  laughter. 
About  her  forehead  wound  it. 
And  loved  me  ever  after. 


A FRAGMENT.* 

Where  is  the  Giant  of  the  Sun,  which  stood 
In  the  midnoon  the  glory  of  old  Rhodes, 

A perfect  Idol  with  profulgent  brows 
Far-sheening  down  the  purple  seas  to  those 
Who  sailed  from  Mizraim  underneath  the  star 
Named  of  the  Dragon  — and  between  whose 
limbs 

* From  the  Gem,  a literary  annual,  for  i86r. 


FUGITIVE 


SONNETS  — THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE  POETS. 


298 

Of  brassy  vastness  broad-blown  Argosies 
Drave  into  haven?  Yet  endure  unscathed 
Of  changeful  cycles  the  great  Pyramids 
Broad-based  amid  the  fleeting  sands,  and 
sloped 

Into  the  slumberous  summer  noon ; but 
where, 

Mysterious  Egypt,  are  thine  obelisks 
Graven  with  gorgeous  emblems  undiscerned? 
Thy  placid  Sphinxes  brooding  o’er  the  Nile? 
Thy  shadowing  Idols  in  the  solitudes, 

Awful  Memnonian  countenances  calm 
Looking  athwart  the  burning  flats,  far  off 
Seen  by  the  high-necked  camel  on  the  verge 
J ourneying  southward  ? W here  are  thy  mon- 
uments 

Piled  by  the  strong  and  sunborn  Anakim 
Over  their  crowned  brethren  On  and  Oph  ? 
Thy  Memnon  when  his  peaceful  lips  are  kist 
With  earliest  rays,  that  from  his  mother’s  eyes 
Flow  over  the  Arabian  bay,  no  more 
Breathes  low  into  the  charmed  ears  of  morn 
Clear  melody  flattering  the  crisped  Nile 
By  columned  Thebes.  Old  Memphis  hath 
gone  down  : 

The  Pharaohs  are  no  more : somewhere  in 
death 

They  sleep  with  staring  eyes  and  gilded  lips. 
Wrapped  round  with  spiced  cerements  in  old 
grots 

Rock-hewn  and  sealed  for  ever. 


SONNET.* 

Me  my  own  fate  to  lasting  sorrow  doometh  : 
Thy  woes  are  birds  of  passage,  transitory  : 
Thy  spirit,  circled  w'ith  a living  glory. 

In  summer  still  a summer  joy  resumeth. 

Alone  my  hopeless  melancholy  gloometh, 
Like  a lone  cypress,  through  the  twilight 
hoary. 

From  an  old  garden  where  no  flower  bloom- 
eth. 

One  cypress  on  an  island  promontory. 

But  yet  my  lonely  spirit  follows  thine, 

As  round  the  rolling  earth  night  follows 
day  : 

But  yet  thy  lights  on  my  horizon  shine 
Into  my  night,  when  thou  art  far  away. 

I am  so  dark,  alas  ! and  thou  so  bright. 

When  we  two  meet  there  ’s  never  perfect 
light. 


SONNET.* 

Check  every  outflash,  every  ruder  sally 
Of  thought  and  speech  ; speak  low  and 
give  up  wholly 

Thy  spirit  to  mild-minded  melancholy  ; 

This  is  the  place.  Through  yonder  poplar 
valley 

Below  the  blue-green  river  windeth  slowly ; 

* Friendship’s  Offering,  1833. 


But  in  the  middle  of  the  sombre  valley 

The  crisped  waters  whisper  musically. 

And  ail  the  haunted  place  is  dark  and  holy. 

The  nightingale,  with  long  and  low  preamble. 

Warbled  from  yonder  knoll  of  solemn 
larches, 

And  in  and  out  the  woodbine’s  flowery 
arches 

The  summer  midges  wove  their  wanton 
gambol. 

And  all  the  white-stemmed  pinewood  slept 
above  — 

When  in  this  valley  fir^  I told  my  love. 


THE  SKIPPING-ROPE.* 

Sure  never  yet  was  Antelope 
Could  skip  so  lightly  by. 

Stand  off,  or  else  my  skipping-rope 
Will  hit  you  in  the  eye. 

How  lightly  whirls  the  skipping-rope  ! 

How  fairy-like  you  fly  ! 

Go,  get  you  gone,  you  muse  and  mope  — 

1 hate  that  silly  sigh. 

Nay,  dearest,  teach  me  how  to  hope. 

Or  tell  me  how  to. die. 

There,  take  it,  take  my  skipping-rope, 
And  hang  yourself  thereby. 

THE  NEW  TIMON  AND  THE 
POETS.t 

We  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare’s  art. 
And  those  fine  curses  w hich  he  spoke ; 
The  old  Timon,  with  his  noble  heart. 

That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old  : here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him  : a familiar  face  : 

I thought  we  knew  him  : What,  it ’s  you. 
The  padded  man  — that  w'ears  the  stays  — 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  I 
A Lion,  you,  that  made  a noise. 

And  shook  a mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too  ; 

You  failed.  Sir  : therefore  now  you  turn, 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 
As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes. 

And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring. 
Can  pardon  little  w'ould-be  Popes 
And  Brummels,  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 

And  waive  a little  of  his  claim ; 

To  have  the  deep  Poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

* Omitted  from  the  edition  of  1842. 
t Published  in  Punch,  February,  1846,  signed 
“ Alcibiades.” 


STANZA  S.  — SONNE  T.  — BRI. 

But  you,  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please  ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content ; 

Nor  like  a gentleman  at  ease. 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears, 
You  cannot  let  a body  be  : 

It ’s  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

“They  call  this  man  as  good  as  meN 

What  profits  now  to  understand 

The  merits  of  a spotless  shirt  — 

A dapper  boot  — a little  hand  — 

If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt  ? 

You  talk  of  tinsel ! why,  we  see 

The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 
yoi4  prate  of  Nature  4 you  are  he 

That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A Timon  you  ! Nay,  nay,  for  shame  : 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a jest  — 

The  fierce  old  man  — to  take  his  name, 

You  bandbox.  Off,  and  let  him  rest. 

STANZAS.* 

What  time  I wasted  youthful  hours, 

One  of  the  shining  winged  powers, 

Show’d  me  vast  cliffs  with  crown  of  towers. 

As  towards  the  gracious  light  I bow’d, 

They  seem’d  high  palaces  and  proud, 

Hid  now  and  then  with  sliding  cloud. 

He  said,  “ The  labor  is  not  small ; 

Yet  winds  the  pathway  free  to  all : — 

Take  care  thou  dost  not  fear  to  fall ! ’ 

SONNET 

TO  WILLIAM  CHARLES  MACREADY.t 

Farewell,  Macready,  since  to-night  we 
part. 

Full-handed  thunders  often  have  confest 
Thy  power,  well-used  to  move  the  public 
breast. 

We  thank  thee  with  one  voice,  and  from  the 
heart. 

Farewell,  Macready:  since  this  night  we  part. 
Go,  take  thine  honors  home  : rank  with  the 
best, 

Garrick,  and  statelier  Kemble,  and  the  rest 
Who  made  a nation  purer  thro’  their  art. 
Thine  is  it,  that  our  Drama  did  not  die. 

Nor  flicker  down  to  brainless  pantomime. 
And  those  gilt  gauds  men-children  swarm 
to  see. 

Farewell,  Macready;  moral,  grave,  sublime. 
Our  Shakespeare’s  bland  and  universal  eye 
Dwells  pleased,  thro’  twice  a hundred 
years,  on  thee. 

• The  Keepsake,  1851. 

f Read  by  Mr.  John  Forster  at  a dinner  given  to 
Mr.  Macready,  March  i,  1851,  on  his  retirement 
from  the  stage. 

TONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN.  299 

BRITONS,  GUARD  YOUR  OWN.* 

Rise,  Britons,  rise,  if  manhood  be  not  dead  ; 
The  world’s  last  tempest  darkens  overhead  ; 
The  Pope  has  bless’d  him ; 

The  Church  caress’d  him  ; 

He  triumphs ; maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

His  ruthless  host  is  bought  with  plunder’d 
gold. 

By  lying  priests  the  peasants’  votes  controll’d. 
All  freedom  vanish’d, 

The  true  men  banish’d. 

He  triumphs  ; maybe  we  shall  stand  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Peace-lovers  we  — sweet  Peace  we  all  de- 
sire — 

Peace-lovers  we  ^but  who  can  trust  a liar  ? — ■ 
Peace-lovers,  haters 

Of  shameless  traitors. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  this  man’s  heart  of 
stone, 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

We  hate  not  France,  but  France  has  lost  her 
voice. 

This  man  is  France,  the  man  they  call  her 
choice. 

By  tricks  and  spying. 

By  craft  and  lying, 

And  murder  was  her  freedom  overthrown. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

“Vive  I’Empereur’’  may  follow  by  and  by; 

“ God  save  the  Queen  ” is  here  a truer  cry. 
God  save  the  Nation, 

The  toleration. 

And  the  free  speech  that  makes  a Briton 
known. 

Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Rome’s  dearest  daughter  now  is  captive 
France, 

The  Jesuit  laughs,  and  reckoning  on  his 
chance. 

Would  unrelenting. 

Kill  all  dissenting, 

Till  we  were  left  to  fight  for  truth  alone. 
Britons,  guard  your  own. 

Call  home  your  ships  across  Biscayan  tides. 

To  blow  the  battle  from  their  oaken  sides. 
Why  waste  they  yonder 

Their  idle  thunder? 

Why  stay  they  there  to  guard  a foreign  throne? 
Seamen,  guard  your  own. 

We  were  the  best  of  marksmen  long  ago. 

We  won  old  battles  with  our  strength,  the 
bow. 

Now  practise,  yeomen, 

Like  those  bowmen, 

Till  your  balls  fly  as  their  shafts  have  flown. 
Yeomen,  guard  your  own. 

* The  Examiner,  1852. 

300  THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY, 

His  soldier-ridden  Highness  might  incline 
To  take  Sardinia,  Belgium,  or  the  Rhine  : 
Shall  we  stand  idle, 

Nor  seek  to  bridle 

His  rude  aggressions,  till  we  stand  alone? 
Make  their  cause  your  own. 

Should  he  land  here,  and  for  one  hour  prevail, 
There  must  no  man  go  back  to  bear  the  tale  : 
No  man  to  bear  it— ^ 

Swear  it ! we  swear  it ! 

Although  we  fight  the  banded  world  alone, 
We  swear  to  guard  our  own. 


THE  THIRD  OF  FEBRUARY,  1852.* 

My  lords,  we  heard  you  speak ; you  told  us 
all 

That,  England’s  honest  censure  went  too 
far ; 

That  our  free  press  should  cease  to  brawl, 
Not  sting  the  fiery  Frenchman  into  war. 

It  was  an  ancient  privilege,  my  lords, 

To  fling  whate’er  we  felt,  not  fearing,  into 
words. 

We  love  not  this  French  God,  this  child  of 
Hell, 

Wild  War,  who  breaks  the  converse  of  the 
wise  ; 

But  though  we  love  kind  Peace  so  well. 

We  dare  not,  e’en  by  silence,  sanction  lies. 

It  might  safe  be  our  censures  to  withdraw  ; 

And  yet,  my  lords,  not  well ; there  is  a higher 
law. 

As  long  as  we  remain,  we  must  speak  free, 
Though  all  the  storm  of  Europe  on  us 
break ; 

No  little  German  state  are  we. 

But  the  one  voice  in  Europe  ; we  must 
speak ; 

That  if  to-night  our  greatness  were  struck 
dead. 

There  might  remain  some  record  of  the 
things  we  said. 

If  you  be  fearful,  then  must  we  be  bold. 

Our  Britain  cannot  salve  a tyrant  o’er. 

Better  the  waste  Atlantic  roll’d 

On  her  and  us  and  ours  for  evermore. 

What ! have  we  fought  for  freedom  from  our 
prime. 

At  last  to  dodge  and  palter  with  a public 
crime  ? 

Shall  we  fear  him  ? our  own  we  never  feared. 
From  our  first  Charles  by  force  we  wrung 
our  claims, 

Prick’d  by  the  Papal  spur,  we  rear’d. 

And  flung  the  burden  of  the  second  James. 

I say  we  never  fear’d  ! and  as  for  these. 

We  broke  them  on  the  land,  we  drove  them 
on  the  seas. 

, * The  Examiner,  1852,  and  signed  ” Merlin.” 


1852.  ^HAHDS  ALL  ROUND, 

And  you,  my  lords,  you  make  the  people 
muse. 

In  doubt  if  you  be  of  our  Barons’  breed  — 

Were  those  your  sires  who  fought  at  Lewes? 

Is  this  the  manly  strain  of  Runnymede 

O fall’n  nobility,  that,  overawed. 

Would  lisp  in  honey’d  whispers  of  this  mon- 
strous fraud. 

We  feel,  at  least,  that  silence  here  were  sin. 

Not  ours  the  fault  if  we  have  feeble  hosts  — 

If  easy  patrons  of  their  kin 

Have  left  the  last  free  race  with  naked 
coasts ! 

They  knew  the  precious  things  they  had  to 
guard  : 

For  us,  we  will  not  spare  the  tyrant  one  hard 
word. 

Though  niggard  throats  of  Manchester  may 
bawl, 

What  England  was,  shall  her  true  sons 
forget  ? 

We  are  not  cotton-spinners  all. 

But  some  love  England,  and  her  honor  yet. 

And  these  in  our  Thermopylae  shall  stand. 

And  hold  against  the  world  the  honor  of  the 
land. 


HANDS  ALL  ROUND.* 

First  drink  a health,  this  solemn  night, 

A health  to  England,  every  guest ; 

That  man ’s  the  best  cosmopolite 
Who  loves  his  native  country  best. 

May  freedom’s  oak  for  ever  live 
With  stronger  life  from  day  to  day  ; 

That  man ’s  the  best  Conservative 
Who  lops  the  mouldered  branch  away. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  hope  confound  ! 

To  this  great  cause  of  Freedom  drink,  my 
friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and 
round. 

A health  to  Europe’s  honest  men  ! 

Heaven  guard  them  from  her  tyrants’  jails  ! 
From  wronged  Poerio’s  noisome  den. 

From  iron  limbs  and  tortured  nails  ! 

We  curse  the  crimes  of  southern  kings. 

The  Russian  whips  and  Austrian  rods  — 
We  likewise  have  our  evil  things ; 

Too  much  we  make  our  Ledgers,  Gods. 

Yet  hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound  ! 

To  Europe’s  better  health  we  drink,  my 
friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and 
round  1 

What  health  to  France,  if  France  be  she. 
Whom  martial  progress  only  charms.-* 

Yet  tell  her  — better  to  be  free 

Than  vanquish  all  the  world  in  arms. 

* The  Examiner,  1852,  and  signed  “ Merlin.” 


; 

\ 


I 


THE  WAR.  — ON  A SPITEFUL  — 1865- 1866. 


301 


Her  frantic  city’s  flashing  heats 
But  fire,  to  blast,  the  hopes  of  men. 

Why  change  the  titles  of  your  streets? 

You  fools,  you  ’ll  want  them  all  again. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound  ! 

To  France,  the  wiser  France,  w'e  drink,  my 
friends. 

And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and 
round. 

Gigantic  daughter  of  the  West, 

We  drink  to  thee  across  the  flood. 

We  know  thee  and  we  love  thee  best, 

For  art  thou  not  of  British  blood? 

Should  war’s  mad  blast  again  be  blown, 
Permit  not  thou  the  tyrant  powers 
To  fight  thy  mother  here  alone. 

But  let  thy  broadsides  roar  with  ours. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound  ! 

To  our  dear  kinsmen  of  the  West,  my  friends, 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and 
round. 

O rise,  our  strong  Atlantic  sons, 

When  war  against  our  freedom  springs  ! 

O speak  to  Europe  through  your  guns  ! 

They  can  be  understood  by  kings. 

You  must  not  mix  our  Queen  with  those 
That  wish  to  keep  their  people  fools  ; 

Our  freedom’s  foemen  are  her  foes, 

She  comprehends  the  race  she  rules. 

Hands  all  round  ! 

God  the  tyrant’s  cause  confound  ! 

To  our  dear  kinsman  in  the  West,  my  friends. 
And  the  great  name  of  England,  round  and 
round. 


THE  WAR.* 

There  is  a sound  of  thunder  afar, 

Storm  in  the  South  that  darkens  the  day. 

Storm  of  battle  and  thunder  of  war, 

Well,  if  it  do  not  roll  our  way. 

Form  ! form  ! Riflemen  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  sound  that  warns  I 
Be  not  gull’d  by  a despot’s  plea  ! 

Are  figs  of  thistles,  or  grapes  of  thorns? 
liow  should  a despot  set  men  free  ? 

Form  ! form  ! Riflemen  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  I 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  1 

Let  your  Reforms  for  a moment  go. 

Look  to  your  butts  and  take  good  aims. 

Better  a rotten  borough  or  so, 

Thau  a rotten  fleet  or  a city  in  flames  1 

* London  Times,  May  9,  1859. 


Form  ! form  ! Riflemen  form  I 
Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

Form,  be  ready  to  do  or  die  ! 

F orm  in  F reedom’s  name  and  the  Queen’s ! 
True,  that  we  have  a faithful  ally. 

But  only  the  Devil  knows  what  he  means. 
Form  ! form  ! Riflemen  form  ! 

Ready,  be  ready  to  meet  the  storm  ! 
Riflemen,  riflemen,  riflemen  form  ! 

T. 


ON  A SPITEFUL  LETTER.* 

Here,  it  is  here  — the  close  of  the  year. 
And  with  it  a spiteful  letter. 

My  fame  in  song  has  done  him  much  wrong. 
For  himself  has  done  much  better. 

0 foolish  bard,  is  your  lot  so  hard. 

If  men  neglect  your  pages? 

1 think  not  much  of  yours  or  of  mine  : 

I hear  the  roll  of  the  ages. 

This  fallen  leaf,  is  n’t  fame  as  brief? 

My  rhymes  may  have  been  the  stronger. 
Yet  hate  me  not,  but  abide  your  lot ; 

I last  but  a moment  longer. 

O faded  leaf,  is  n’t  fame  as  brief? 

What  room  is  here  for  a hater  ? 

Yet  the  yellow  leaf  hates  the  greener  leaf. 
For  it  hangs  one  moment  later. 

Greater  than  I — is  n’t  that  your  cry  ? 

And  I shall  live  to  see  it. 

Well,  if  it  be  so,  so  it  is,  jjou  know ; 

And  if  it  be  so  — so  be  it ! 

O summer  leaf,  is  n’t  life  as  brief? 

But  this  is  the  time  of  hollies. 

And  my  heart,  my  heart  is  an  evergreen  : 

I hate  the  spites  and  the  follies. 


1865-  i866.t 

I STOOD  on  a tower  in  the  wet. 

And  New  Year  and  Old  Year  met. 

And  winds  were  roaring  and  blowing  ; 

And  I said,  O years  that  meet  in  tears. 
Have  ye  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing  ? 
Science  enough  and  exploring. 

Wanderers  coming  and  going. 

Matter  enough  for  deploring, 

But  aught  that  is  worth  the  knowing  ? ” 
Seas  at  my  feet  were  flowing, 

Waves  on  the  shingle  pouring. 

Old  Year  roaring  and  blowing. 

And  New  Year  blowing  and  roaring. 

* Once  a Week,  January  4,  1868. 
t Good  Words,  March,  1868. 


/ 


302  THE  WINDOW, 


THE  WINDOW; 


OR, 

THE  SONGS  OF  THE  WRENS. 


WORDS  WRITTEN  FOR  MUSIC. 

THE  MUSIC  BY  ARTHUR  SULLIVAN. 

Four  years  ago  Mr.  Sullivan  requested  me  to  write  a little  song-cycle,  German  fashion,  for  him  to 
exercise  his  art  upon.  He  had  been  very  successful  in  setting  such  old  songs  as  “Orpheus  with  his 
Lute,”  and  I drest  up  for  him,  partly  in  the  old  style,  a puppet  whose  almost  only  merit  is,  perhaps,  that 
it  can  dance  to  Mr.  Sullivan’s  instrument.  I am  sorry  that  my  four-year-old  puppet  should  have  to 
dance  at  all  in  the  dark  shadow  of  these  days ; but  the  music  is  now  completed,  and  I am  bound  by 
my  promise. 

A.  Tennyson. 

December,  1870. 


T. 

ON  THE  HILL. 

The  lights  and  shadows  fly  ! 

Yonder  it  brightens  and  darkens  down  on  the 
plain. 

A jewel,  a jewel  dear  to  a lover’s  eye  ! 

O is  it  the  brook,  or  a pool,  or  her  window- 
pane. 

When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning? 

Clouds  that  are  racing  above. 

And  winds  and  lights  and  shadows  that  can- 
not be  still, 

All  running  on  one  way  to  the  home  of  my 
love, 

You  are  all  running  on,  and  I stand  on  the 
slope  of  the  hill. 

And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning  ! 

Follow,  follow  the  chase  ! 

And  my  thoughts  are  as  quick  and  as  quick, 
ever  on,  on,  on. 

O lights,  are  you  flying  over  her  sweet 
little  face  ? 

And  my  heart  is  there  before  you  are  come 
and  gone. 

When  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning  ! 

Follow'  them  down  the  slope  ! 

And  I follow  them  down  to  the  window-pane 
of  my  dear. 

And  it  brightens  and  darkens  and  bright- 
ens like  my  hope. 

And  it  darkens  and  brightens  and  darkens 
like  my  fear. 

And  the  winds  are  up  in  the  morning. 


II. 

AT  THE  WINDOW. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 

Clasp  her  window,  trail  and  twine  ! 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 

Trail  and  tw'ine  and  clasp  and  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss  ; and  make  her  a bower 
All  of  flowers,  and  drop  me  a flower, 
Drop  me  a flower. 

Vine,  vine  and  eglantine. 

Cannot  a flower,  a flower,  be  mine  ? 
Rose,  rose  and  clematis. 

Drop  me  a flower,  a flower,  to  kiss. 
Kiss,  kiss  — And  out  of  her  bower 
All  of  flowers,  a flower,  a flower, 
Dropt,  a flower. 


III. 

GONE  I 

Gone  ! 

Gone  till  the  end  of  the  year. 

Gone,  and  the  light  gone  with  her  and  left 
me  in  shadow  here  ! 

Gone  — flitted  away. 

Taken  the  stars  from  the  night  and  the  sun 
from  the  day  ! 

Gone,  and  a cloud  in  my  heart,  and  a storm 
in  the  air  ! 

Flown  to  the  east  or  the  west,  flitted  I know 
not  where  ! 

Down  in  the  south  is  a flash  and  a groan : 
she  is  there  ! she  is  there  1 


THE  WINDOW.  303 


IV. 

WINTER. 

The  frost  is  here, 

And  fuel  is  dear, 

And  woods  are  sear. 

And  fires  burn  clear, 

And  frost  is  here 

And  has  bitten  the  heel  of  the  going  year. 

Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

You  roll  up  away  from  the  light 
The  blue  woodlouse,  and  the  plump  dor- 
mouse, 

And  the  bees  are  still’d,  and  the  flies  are 
kill’d. 

And  you  bite  far  into  the  heart  of  the  house. 
But  not  into  mine. 

Bite,  frost,  bite  ! 

The  woods  are  all  the  searer, 

The  fuel  is  all  the  dearer. 

The  fires  are  all  the  clearer, 

My  spring  is  all  the  nearer, 

You  have  bitten  into  the  heart  of  the  earth. 
But  not  into  mine. 


V. 

SPRING. 

Birds’  love  and  birds’  song 
Flying  here  and  there, 

Birds’  song  and  birds’  love. 

And  you  with  gold  for  hair 
Birds’  song  and  birds’  love, 

Passing  with  the  weather. 

Men’s  song  and  men’s  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men’s  love  and  birds’  love. 

And  women’s  love  and  men’s  I 
And  you  my  wren  with  a crown  of  gold. 
You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens  ! 

You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens  — 

We  ’ll  be  birds  of  a feather, 

I ’ll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens, 
And  all  in  a nest  together. 


VI. 

THE  LETTER. 

Where  is  another  sweet  as  my  sweet. 
Fine  of  the  fine,  and  shy  of  the  shy? 
Fine  little  hands,  fine  little  feet  — 
Dewy  blue  eye. 

Shall  I write  to  her  ? shall  I go  ? 

Ask  her  to  marry  me  by  and  by? 
Somebody  said  that  she ’d  say  no  ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she  ’ll  say  ay ! 

Ay  or  no,  if  ask’d  to  her  face  ? 

Ay  or  no,  from  sliy  of  the  shy  ? 


Go,  little  letter,  apace,  apace, 

Fly  ! 

Fly  to  the  light  in  the  valley  below  — 
Tell  my  wish  to  her  dewy  blue  eye  ; 
Somebody  said  that  she ’d  say  no  ; 
Somebody  knows  that  she  ’ll  say  ay  ! 


VII. 

NO  ANSWER. 

The  mist  and  the  rain,  the  mist  and  the  rain  1 
Is  it  ay  or  no  ? is  it  ay  or  no  ? 

And  never  a glimpse  of  her  window-pane  ! 

And  I may  die  but  the  grass  will  grow. 
And  the  grass  will  grow  when  I am  gone, 
And  the  wet  west  wind  and  the  w'orld  will  go 
on. 

Ay  is  the  song  of  the  wedded  spheres. 

No  is  trouble  and  cloud  and  storm. 

Ay  is  life  for  a hundred  years. 

No  will  push  me  down  to  the  worm. 

And  when  I am  there  and  dead  and  gone, 
The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  will  go  on. 

I'he  wind  and  the  wet,  the  wind  and  the  wet ! 

Wet  west  wind,  how  you  blow,  you  blow  ! 
And  never  a line  from  my  lady  yet  I 
Is  it  ay  or  no  ? is  it  ay  or  no? 

Blow  then,  blow,  and  when  I am  gone. 

The  wet  west  wind  and  the  world  may  go  on. 


VIII. 

NO  ANSWER. 

Winds  are  loud  and  you  are  dumb  *. 
Take  my  love,  for  love  will  come. 
Love  will  come  but  once  a life. 
Winds  are  loud  and  winds  will  pass  ! 
Spring  is  here  with  leaf  and  gmss  : 

Take  my  love  and  be  my  wife. 
After-loves  of  maids  and  men 
Are  but  dainties  drest  again  : 

Love  me  now,  you  ’ll  love  me  then  : 
Love  can  love  but  once  a life. 


IX. 

THE  ANSWER. 

Two  little  hands  that  meet, 

Claspt  on  her  seal,  my  sweet  ! 
Must  I take  you  and  break  you. 
Two  little  hands  that  meet? 

I must  take  you,  and  break  you. 
And  loving  hands  must  part  — 
Take,  take  — break,  break  — 
Break  — you  may  break  my  heart. 
Faint  heart  never  won  — 

Break,  break,  and  all ’s  done. 


304  the  window. 


ix^ 

AY! 

Be  merry,  all  birds,  to-day, 

Be  merry  on  earth  as  you  never  were 
merry  before, 

Be  merry  in  heaven,  O larks,  and  far  away. 
And  merry  for  ever  and  ever,  and  one  day 
more. 

Why? 

For  it ’s  easy  to  find  a rhyme. 

Look,  look,  how  he  flits. 

The  fire-crown’d  king  of  the  wrens,  from 
out  of  the  pine  ! 

Look  how  they  tumble  the  blossom,  the  mad 
little  tits  ! 

“ Cuck-oo  ! Cuck-oo  ! ” was  ever  a May 
so  fine  ? 

^ Why? 

For  it ’s  easy  to  find  a rhyme. 

O merry  the  linnet  and  dove. 

And  swallow  and  sparrow  and  throstle,  and 
have  your  desire  ! 

O merry  my  heart,  you  have  gotten  the  wings 
of  love. 

And  flit  like  the  king  of  the  wrens  with  a 
crown  of  fire. 

Why? 

For  it ’s  ay  ay  ay,  ay  ay. 


X. 

WHEN? 

Sun  comes,  moon  comes, 
Time  slips  away. 

Sun  sets,  moon  sets. 
Love,  fix  a day. 


“A  year  hence,  a year  hence.” 

“We  shall  both  be  gray.” 

“ A month  hence,  a month  hence.” 
“ Far,  far  away.” 

“A  week  hence,  a week  hence.” 

“ Ah,  the  long  delay.” 

“Wait  a little,  wait  a little, 

“ You  shall  fix  a day.” 

“ To-morrow,  love,  to-morrow. 

And  that ’s  an  age  away.” 

Blaze  upon  her  window,  sun. 

And  honor  all  the  day. 


XI. 

MARRIAGE  MORNING. 

Light,  so  low  upon  earth. 

You  send  a flash  to  the  sun. 

Here  is  the  golden  close  of  love. 

All  my  wooing  is  done. 

O the  woods  and  the  meadows. 

Woods  where  we  hid  from  the  wet, 

Stiles  where  we  stay’d  to  be  kind. 
Meadows  in  which  we  met  ! 

Light,  so  lov^  in  the  vale. 

You  flash  and  lighten  afar : 

For  this  is  the  golden  morning  of  love. 
And  you  are  his  morning  star. 

Flash,  I am  coming,  I come. 

By  meadow  and  stile  and  wood  : 

O lighten  into  my  eyes  and  my  heart. 
Into  my  heart  and  my  blood  ! 

Heart,  are  you  great  enough 
For  a love  that  never  tires? 

O heart,  are  you  great  enough  for  love? 
I have  heard  of  thorns  and  briers. 

Over  the  thorns  and  briers. 

Over  the  meadows  and  stiles. 

Over  the  w'orld  to  the  end  of  it 
Flash  for  a million  miles.  • 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 

GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 

And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a showerful  spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.  A slender-shafted 
Pine 

Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl’d  away. 

“ How  he  went  down,”  said  Gareth,  “as  a 
false  knight 

Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use  — O senseless  cataract, 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy  — 

And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold 
snows, 

And  mine  is  living  blood  : thou  dost  His  will, 
The  Maker’s,  and  not  knowest,  and  I that 
know, 

Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good  mother’s 
hall 

Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 

Prison’d,  and  kept  and  coax’d  and  whistled 
to  — 

Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a 
child  — 

Good  mother  is  bad  mother  unto  me  I 
A worse  were  better ; yet  no  worse  would  I. 
Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put  force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous 
prayer. 

Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
In  ever-highering  eagle-circles  up 
To  the  great  Sun  of  Glory,  and  thence 
swoop 

Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash  them 
^ dead, 

A knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his  will, 

To  cleanse  the  world.  Why,  Gawain,  when 
he  came 

With  Modred  hither  in  the  summertime, 
Ask’d  me  to  tilt  with  him,  the  proven 
knight. 

Modred  for  want  of  worthier  was  the  judge. 
Then  I so  shook  him  in  the  saddle,  he  s^id, 
‘Thou  hast  half  prevail’d  against  me,’  said 
so  — he  — 

Tho’  Modred  biting  his  thin  lips  was  mute. 
For  he  is  alway  sullen  : what  care  I ? ” 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round 
her  chair 

Ask’d,  “ Mother,  tho’  ye  count  me  still  the 
child. 

Sweet  mother,  do  ye  love  the  child  ? ” She 
laugh’d, 

“ Thou  art  but  a wild-goose  to  question  it.” 
“Then,  mother,  an  ye  love  the  child,”  he 
said, 

“ Being  a goose  and  rather  tame  than  wild. 
Hear  the  cWld’s  story.”  “ Yea,  my  well- 
beloved. 

An  *t  were  but  of  the  goose  and  golden 
eggs.” 


And  Gareth  answer’d  her  with  kindling 
eyes, 

“ Nay,  nay,  good  mother,  but  this  egg  of 
mine 

Was  finer  gold  than  any  goose  can  lay  ; 

For  this  an  Eagle,  a royal  Eagle,  laid 
Almost  beyond  eye-reach,  on  such  a palm 
As  glitters  gilded  in  thy  Book  of  Hours. 
And  there  was  ever  haunting  round  the 
palm 

A lusty  youth,  but  poor,  who  often  saw 
The  splendor  sparkling  from  aloft,  and 
thought 

‘An  I could  climb  and  lay  my  hand  upon 
it. 

Then  were  I wealthier  than  a leash  of 
kings.’ 

But  ever  when  he  reach’d  a hand  to  climb. 
One,  that  had  loved  him  from  his  childhood, 
caught 

And  stay’d  him,  ‘ Climb  not  lest  thou  break 
thy  neck, 

I charge  thee  by  my  love,’  and  so  the  boy, 
Sweet  mother,  neither  clorab,  nor  brake  his 
neck. 

But  brake  his  very  heart  in  pining  for  it, 

And  past  away.” 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
“ True  love,  sweet  son,  had  risk’d  himself 
and  climb’d. 

And  handed  down  the  golden  treasure  to 
him.” 

Apd  Gareth  answer’d  her  with  kindling 
eyes, 

“ Gold?  said  I gold ? — ay  then,  why  he,  or 
she, 

Or  whosoe’er  it  was,  or  half  the  world 
Had  ventured  — kad  the  thing  I spake  of 
been 

Mere  gold  — but  this  was  all  of  that  true 
steel, 

Whereof  they  forged  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  lightnings  play’d  about  it  in  the  storm. 
And  all  the  little  fowl  were  flurried  at  it. 

And  there  were  cries  and  clashings  in  the 
nest, 

That  sent  him  from  his  senses : let  me  go.” 

Then  Bellicent  bemoan’d  herself  and  said, 
“ Hast  thou  no  pity  upon  my  loneliness? 

Lo,  where  thy  father  Lot  beside  the  hearth 
Lies  like  a log,  and  all  but  smoulder’d 
out  1 

For  ever  since  when  traitor  to  the  King 
He  fought  against  him  in  the  Barons’  war. 
And  Arthur  gave  him  back  his  territory. 

His  age  hath  slowly  droopt,  and  now  lies 
there 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 


306 

A yet-warm  corpse,  and  yet  unburiable, 

No  more  ; nor  sees,  nor  hears,  nor  speaks, 
nor  knows. 

And  both  thy  brethren  are  in  Arthur’s  hall, 

Albeit  neither  loved  with  that  full  love 

I feel  for  thee,  nor  worthy  such  a love  : 

Stay  therefore  thou ; red  berries  charm  the 
bird. 

And  thee,  mine  innocent,  the  jousts,  the 
wars. 

Who  never  knewest  finger-ache,  nor  pang 

Of  wrench’d  or  broken  limb  — an  often 
chance 

In  those  brain-stunning  shocks,  and  tourney- 
falls. 

Frights  to  my  heart;  but  stay:  follow  the 
deer 

By  these  tall  firs  and  our  fast-falling  burns  ; 

So  make  thy  manhood  mightier  day  by  day  ; 

Sweet  is  the  chase  : and  I will  seek  thee 
out 

Some  comfortable  bride  and  fair,  to  grace 

Thy  climbing  life,  and  cherish  my  prone 
year. 

Till  falling  into  Lot’s  forgetfulness 

I know  not  thee,  myself,  nor  anything. 

Stay,  my  best  son  ! ye  are  yet  more  boy  than 
man.” 


Then  Gareth,  ‘ ‘ An  ye  hold  me  yet  for 
child. 

Hear  yet  once  more  the  story  of  the  child. 
J'or,  mother,  there  was  once  a King,  like 
ours ; 

The  prince  his  heir,  when  tall  and  marriage- 
able. 

Ask’d  for  a bride  ; and  thereupon  the  King 
Set  two  before  him.  One  was  fair,  strong, 
arm’d  — 

But  to  be  won  by  force  — and  many  men 
Desired  her;  one,  good  lack,  no  man  de- 
sired. 

And  these  were  the  conditions  of  the  King  : 
That  save  he  won  the  first  by  force,  he 
needs 

Must  wed  that  other,  whom  no  man  desired, 
A red-faced  bride  who  knew  herself  so  vile. 
That  evermore  she  long’d  to  hide  herself. 
Nor  fronted  man  or  woman,  eye  to  eye  — 
Yea  — some  she  cleaved  to,  but  they  died  of 
her. 

And  one  — they  call’d  her  Fame;  and  one, 
O Mother, 

How  can  ye  keep  me  tether’d  to  you  — 
Shame  ! 

Man  am  I grown,  a man’s  work  must  I do. 
Follow  the  deer  ? follow  the  Christ,  the 
King, 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong,  follow 
the  King  — 

Else,  wherefore  born?” 

To  whom  the  mother  said, 
“Sweet  son,  for  there  be  many  who  deem 
him  not. 

Or  will  not  deem  him,  wholly  proven 
King  — 


Albeit  in  mine  own  heart  I knew  him 
King, 

When  I was  frequent  with  him  in  my  youth. 
And  heard  him  Kingly  speak,  and  doubted 
him 

No  more  than  he,  himself ; but  felt  him 
mine. 

Of  closest  kin  to  me  : yet  — wilt  thou  leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine 
all. 

Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven 
King  ? 

Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round  his 
birth 

Hath  lifted  but  a little.  Stay,  sweet  son.” 

And  Gareth  answer’d  quickly,  “Not  an 
hour. 

So  that  ye  yield  me  — I will  walk  thro’  fire. 
Mother,  to  gain  it  — your  full  leave  to  go. 
Not  proven,  who  swept  the  dust  of  ruin’d 
Rome 

From  off  the  threshold  of  the  realm,  and 
crush’d 

'J’he  Idolaters,  and  made  the  people  free? 
Who  should  be  King  save  him  who  makes 
us  free? ” 

So  when  the  Queen,  who  long  had  sought 
in  vain 

To  break  him  from  the  intent  to  which  he 
grew. 

Found  her  son’s  will  unwaveringly  one, 

She  answer’d  craftily,  “Will  ye  walk  thro’ 
fire? 

Who  walks  thro’  fire  will  hardly  heed  the 
smoke. 

Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must : only  one  proof. 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee 
knight. 

Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me. 

Thy  mother,  — I demand.” 

And  Gareth  cried, 

“ A hard  one,  or  a hundred,  so  I go. 

Nay  — quick  ! the  proof  to  prove  me  to  the 
quick ! ” 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother,  looking  at 
him, 

“ Prince,  thou  shall  go  disguised  to  Arthur’s 
hall. 

And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and 
drinks 

Among  the  scullions  and  the  kitchen-knaves. 
And  those  that  hand  the  dish  across  the 
bar. 

Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 

And  thou  shalt  serve  a twelvemonth  and  a 
day.” 

For  so  the  Queen  believed  that  when  her 
son 

Beheld  his  only  way  to  glory  lead 
Low  down  thro’  villain  kitchen-vassalage. 
Her  own  true  Gareth  was  too  princely-proud 
To  pass  thereby  ; so  should  he  rest  with  her. 
Closed  in  her  castle  from  the  sound  of  arms 


i 


CARET//  AND  LYNETTE.  307 


Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied, 

“ The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul, 
And  I shall  see  the  jousts.  Thy  son  am  I, 
And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must  obey. 

I therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will ; 

For  hence  will  I,  disguised,  and  hire  my- 
self 

To  serve  with  scullions  and  with  kitchen- 
knaves  ; 

Nor  tell  my  name  to  any  — no,  not  the 
King.” 

Gareth  awhile  linger’d.  The  mother’s  eye 
Full  of  the  wistful  fear  that  he  would  go. 
And  turning  toward  him  wheresoe’er  he 
turn’d, 

Perplext  his  outward  purpose,  till  an  hour. 
When  waken’d  by  the  wind  which  with  full 
voice 

Swept  bellowing  thro’  the  darkness  on  to 
dawn, 

He  rose,  and  out  of  slumber  calling  two 
That  still  had  tended  on  him  from  his  birth, 
Before  the  wakeful  mother  heard  him,  went. 

The  three  were  clad  like  tillers  of  the  soil. 
Southward  they  set  their  faces.  The  birds 
made 

Melody  on  branch,  and  melody  in  mid  air. 
The  damp  hill-slopes  were  quicken’d  into 
green. 

And  the  live  green  had  kindled  into  flowers. 
For  it  was  past  the  time  of  Easterday. 

So,  when  their  feet  were  planted  on  the 
plain 

That  broaden’d  toward  the  base  of  Camelot, 
Far  off  they  saw  the  silver-misty  morn 
Rolling  her  smoke  about  the  Royal  mount. 
That  rose  between  the  forest  and  the  field. 
At  times  the  summit  of  the  high  city  flash’d  ; 
At  times  the  spires  and  turrets  half-way 
down 

Prick’d  thro’  the  mist;  at  times  the  great 
gate  shone 

Only,  that  open’d  on  the  field  below  : 

Anon,  the  whole  fair  city  had  disappear’d. 

Then  those  who  went  w'ith  Gareth  were 
amazed. 

One  crying,  “ Let  us  go  no  farther,  lord. 
Here  is  a city  of  Enchanters,  built 
By  fairy  Kings.”  The  second  echo’d  him, 

“ Lord,  we  have  heard  from  our  wise  men  at 
home 

To  Northward,  that  this  King  is  not  the 
King, 

But  only  changeling  out  of  Fairyland, 

Who  drave  the  heathen  hence  by  sorcery 
And  Merlin’s  glamour.”  Then  the  first  again, 
“ Lord,  there  is  no  such  city  anywhere. 

But  all  a vision.” 

Gareth  answer’d  them 

With  laughter,  swearing  he  had  glamour 
enow 

In  his  own  blood,  his  princedom,  youth  and 
hopes, 


To  plunge  old  Merlin  in  the  Arabian  sea ; 

So  push’d  them  all  unwilling  toward  the 
gate. 

And  there  w’as  no  gate  like  it  under  heaven  ; 
For  barefoot  on  the  keystone,  which  was 
lined 

And  rippled  like  an  ever-fleeting  wave. 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake  stood : all  her  dress 
Wept  from  her  sides  as  water  flowing  away  ; 
But  like  the  cross  her  great  and  gooSy  arms 
Stretch’d  under  ail  the  cornice  and  upheld ; 
And  drops  of  water  fell  from  either  hand  ; 
And  down  from  one  a sword  was  hung,  from 
one 

A censer,  either  worn  with  wind  and  storm  ; 
And  o’er  her  breast  floated  the  sacred  fish  ; 
And  in  the  space  to  left  of  her,  and  right, 
Were  Arthur’s  wars  in  weird  devices  done. 
New  things  and  old  co-twisted,  as  if  Time 
Were  nothing,  so  inveterately,  that  men 
Were  giddy  gazing  there  ; and  over  all 
High  on  the  top  were  those  three  Queens, 
the  friends 

Of  Arthur,  who  should  help  him  at  his  need. 

Then  those*  with  Gareth  for  so  long  a 
space 

Stared  at  the  figures,  that  at  last  it  seem’d 
The  dragon-boughts  and  elvish  emblemings 
Began  to  move,  seethe,  twine  and  curl : 
they  call’d 

To  Gareth,  “ Lord,  the  gateway  is  alive.” 

And  Gareth  likewise  on  them  fixt  his 
eyes 

So  long,  that  ev’n  to  him  they  seem’d  to 
move. 

Out  of  the  city  a blast  of  music  peal’d. 

Back  from  the  gate  started  the  three,  to 
whom 

From  out  thereunder  came  an  ancient  man,  - 
Long-bearded,  saying,  “Who  be  ye,  my 
sons?  ” 

Then  Gareth,  “ We  be  tillers  of  the  soil. 
Who  leaving  share  in  furrow  come  to  see 
The  glories  of  our  King  : but  these,  my  men, 
(Your  city  moved  so  weirdly  in  the  mist,) 
Doubt  if  the  King  be  King  at  all,  or  come 
From  Fairyland  ; and  whether  this  be  built 
By  magic,  and  by  fairy  Kings  and  Queens ; 
Or  whether  there  be  any  city  at  all. 

Or  all  a vision  : and  this  music  now 
Hath  scared  them  both,  but  tell  thou  these 
the  truth.” 

Then  that  old  Seer  made  answer  playing 
on  him 

And  saying,  “ Son,  I have  seen  the  good 
ship  sail 

Keel  upward  and  mast  downward  in  the 
heavens. 

And  solid  turrets  topsy-turvy  in  air : 

And  here  is  truth ; but  an  it  please  thee  not. 
Take  thou  the  truth  as  thou  hast  told  it  me. 
For  truly,  as  thou  sayest,  a Fairy  King 
And  Fairy  Queens  have  built  the  city,  son  ; 
They  came  from  out  a sacred  mountain -clefl 


3o8 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Toward  the  sunrise,  each  with  harp  in  haftd, 
And  built  it  to  the  music  of  their  harps. 

And  as  thou  sayest,  it  is  enchanted,  son, 

For  there  is  nothing  in  it  as  it  seems 
Saving  the  King;  tho’  some  there  be  that 
hold 

The  King  a shadow,  and  the  city  real : 

Yet  take  thou  heed  of  him,  for,  so  thou  pass 
Beneath  this  archway,  then  wilt  thou  become 
A thrall  to  his  enchantments,  for  the  King 
Will  bind  thee  by  such  vows,  as  is  a shame 
A man  should  not  be  bound  by,  yet  the 
which 

No  man  can  keep;  but,  so  thou  dread  to 
swear, 

Pass  not  beneath  this  gateway,  but  abide 
Without,  among  the  cattle  of  the  field. 

For,  an  ye  heard  a music,  like  enow 
They  are  building  still,  seeing  the  city  is 
built 

To  music,  therefore  never  built  at  all. 

And  therefore  built  forever. 


Gareth  spake 

Anger’d,  “ Old  Master,  reverence  thine  own 
beard  * 

That  looks  as  white  as  utter  truth,  and 
seems 

Wellnigh  as  long  as  thou  are  statured  tall ! 

Why  mockest  thou  the  stranger  that  hath 
been 

To  thee  fair-spoken?” 


And  pinnacle,  and  had  made  it  spire  to 
heaven. 

And  ever  and  anon  a knight  would  pas§ 
Outward,  or  inward  to  the  hall : his  arms 
Clash’d ; and  the  sound  was  good  to  Gareth’s 
ear. 

And  out  of  bower  and  casement  shyly  glanced 
Eyes  of  pure  women,  wholesome  stars  of 
love ; 

And  all  about  a healthful  people  stept 
As  in  the  presence  of  a gracious  king. 


Then  into  hall  Gareth  ascending  heard 
A voice,  the  voice  of  Arthur,  and  beheld 
Far  over  heads  in  that  long-vaulted  hall 
The  splendor  of  the  presence  of  the  King 
Throned,  and  delivering  doom  — and  look’d 


no  more  — 

But  felt  his  young  heart  hammering  in  his 
ears, 

And  thought,  “ For  this  half-shadow  of  a lie 
The  truthful  King  will  doom  me  when  I 
speak.” 

Yet  pressing  on,  tho’  all  in  fear  to  find 
Sir  Gawain  or  Sir  Modred,  saw  nor  one 
Nor  other,  but  in  all  the  listening  eyes 
Of  those  tall  knights,  that  ranged  about  the 
throne, 

Clear  honor  shining  like  the  dewy  star 
Of  dawn,  and  faith  in  their  great  King,  with 


pure 

Affection,  and  the  light  of  victory. 

And  glory  gain’d,  and  evermore  to  gain. 


But  the  Seer  replied, 
“Know  ye  not  then  the  Riddling  of  the 
Bards  ? 

‘ Confusion,  and  illusion,  and  relation, 
Elusion,  and  occasion,  and  evasion  ’ ? 

I mock  thee  not  but  as  thou  mockest  me. 
And  all  that  see  thee,  for  thou  art  not  who 
Thou  seemest,  but  I know  thee  who  thou  art. 
And  now  thou  goest  up  to  mock  the  King, 
Who  cannot  brook  the  shadow  of  any  lie.” 

Unmockingly  the  mocker  ending  here 
Turn’d  to  the  right,  and  past  along  the 
plain  ; 

Whom  Gareth  looking  after  said,  “My 
men, 

Our  one  white  lie  sits  like  a little  ghost 
Here  on  the  threshold  of  our  enterprise. 

Let  love  be  blamed  for  it,  not  she,  nor  I : 
Well,  we  will  make  amends.” 

With  all  good  cheer 
He  spake  and  laugh’d,  then  enter’d  with 
his  twain 

Camelot,  a city  of  shadowy  palaces. 

And  stately,  rich  in  emblem  and  the  work  ^ 
Of  ancient  Kings  who  did  their  days  in 
stone ; 

Which  Merlin’s  hand,  the  Mage  at  Arthur’s 
court. 

Knowing  all  arts,  had  touch’d,  and  every- 
where 

At  Arthur’s  ordinance,  tipt  with  lessening 
peak 


Then  came  a widov?  crying  to  the  King, 
“A  boon.  Sir  King  1 Thy  father,  Uther, 
reft 

From  my  dead  lord  a field  with  violence : 
For  howsoe’er  at  first  he  proffer’d  gold. 

Yet,  for  the  field  was  pleasant  in  our  eyes. 
We  yielded  not ; and  then  he  reft  us  of  it 
Perforce,  and  left  us  neither  gold  nor  field.” 

Said  Arthur,  “ Whether  would  ye  ? gold  or 
field?” 

To  whom  the  woman  w'eeping,  “Nay,  my 
lord, 

The  field  was  pleasant  in  my  husband’s  eye.” 

And  Arthur,  “Have  thy  pleasant  field 
again, 

And  thrice  the  gold  for  Uther’s  use  thereof. 
According  to  the  years.  No  boon  is  here, 
But  justice,  so  thy  say  be  proven  true. 
Accursed,  who  from  the  wrongs  his  father 
did 

Would  shape  himself  a right ! ” 

And  while  she  past. 
Came  yet  another  widow  crying  to  him, 

“ A boon,  Sir  King ! Thine  enemy.  King, 
am  I. 

With  thine  own  hand  thou  slowest  my  dear 
lord, 

A knight  of  Uther  in  the  Barons’  war. 

When  Lot  and  many  another  rose  and 
fought 

Against  thee,  saying  thou  wert  basely  bom. 


CARET//  AND  LYNETTE, 


I held  with  these,  and  loathe  to  ask  thee 
aught. 

Yet  lo  ! my  husband’s  brother  had  my  son 
Thrall’d  in  his  castle,  and  hath  starved  him 
dead ; 

And  standeth  seized  of  that  inheritance 
Which  thou  that  slowest  the  sire  hast  left  the 
son. 

So  tho’  I scarce  can  ask  it  thee  for  hate, 
Grant  me  some  knight  to  do  the  battle  for 
me, 

Kill  the  foul  thief,  and  wreak  me  for  my  son.” 

Then  strode  a good  knight  forward,  crying 
to  him, 

“ A boon,  Sir  King  ! I am  her  kinsman,  I. 
Give  me  to  right  her  wrong,  and  slay  the 
man.” 

Then  came  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  and 
cried, 

“ A boon.  Sir  King ! ev’n  that  thou  grant 
her  none. 

This  railer,  that  hath  mock’d  thee  in  full 
hall  — 

None ; or  the  wholesome  boon  of  gyve  and 
gag.” 

But  Arthur,  *‘We  sit.  King,  to  help  the 
wrong’d 

Thro’  all  our  realm.  The  woman  loves  her 
lord. 

Peace  to  thee,  woman,  with  thy  loves  and 
hates ! 

The  kings  of  old  had  doom’d  thee  to  the 
flames, 

Aurelius  Emrys  would  have  scourged  thee 
dead, 

And  Uther  slit  thy  tongue : but  get  thee 
hence  — 

Lest  that  rough  humor  of  the  kings  of  old 
Return  upon  me  ! Thou  that  art  her  kin. 

Go  likewise ; lay  him  low  and  slay  him 
not. 

But  bring  him  here,  that  I may  judge  the 
right, 

According  to  the  justice  of  the  King  : 

Then,  be  he  guilty,  by  that  deathless  King 
Who  lived  and  died  for  men,  the  man  shall 
die.” 

Then  came  in  hall  the  messenger  of  Mark, 
A name  of  evil  savor  in  the  land, 

T'he  Cornish  king.  In  either  hand  he  bore 
What  dazzled  all,  and  shone  far-off  as  shines 
A field  of  charlock  in  the  sudden  sun 
Between  two  showers,  a cloth  of  palest  gold. 
Which  down  he  laid  before  the  throne,  and 
knelt. 

Delivering,  that  his  Lord,  the  vassal  king, 
Was  ev’n  upon  his  way  to  Camelot ; 

For  having  heard  that  Arthur  of  his  grace 
Had  made  his  goodly  cousin,  Tristram, 
knight. 

And,  for  himself  was  of  the  greater  state, 
Being  a king,  he  trusted  his  liege-lord 
Would  yield  him  this  large  honor  all  the 
more ; 


So  pray’d  him  well  to  accept  this  cloth  of 
gold. 

In  token  of  true  heart  and  fealty. 

Then  Arthur  cried  to  rend  the  cloth,  to 
rend 

In  pieces,  and  so  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 

An  oak-tree  smouldered  there.  “ The  goodly 
knight  ! 

What ! shall  the  shield  of  Mark  stand  among 
these  ? ” 

For,  midway  down  the  side  of  that  long  hall 
A stately  pile,  — whereof  along  the  front, 
Some  blazon’d,  some  but  carven,  and  some 
blank. 

There  ran  a treble  range  of  stony  shields,  — 
Rose,  and  high-arching  overbrow’d  the 
hearth. 

And  under  every  shield  a knight  was  named  : 
For  this  was  Arthur’s  custom  in  his  hall ; 
When  some  good  knight  had  done  one  noble 
deed. 

His  arms  were  carven  only  ; but  if  twain 
His  arms  were  blazon’d  also  ; but  if  none 
The  shield  was  blank  and  bare  without  a 
sign 

Saving  the  n^me  beneath  ; and  Gareth  saw 
The  shield  of  Gawain  blazon’d  rich  and 
bright, 

And  Modred’s  blank  as  death ; and  Arthur 
cried 

To  rend  the  cloth  and  cast  it  on  the  hearth. 

“ More  like  are  we  to  reave  him  of  his 
crown 

Than  rnake  him  knight  because  men  call 
him  king. 

The  kings  we  found,  ye  know  we  stay’d  their 
hands 

From  w'ar  among  themselves,  but  left  them 
kings  ; 

Of  whom  were  any  bounteous,  merciful, 
Truth-speaking,  brave,  good  livers,  them  w’e 
enroll’d 

Among  us,  and  they  sit  within  our  hall. 

But  Mark  hath  tarnish’d  the  great  name  of 
king. 

As  Mark  would  sully  the  low  state  of  churl : 
And,  seeing  he  hath  sent  us  cloth  of  gold. 
Return,  and  meet,  and  hold  him  from  our 
eye.s. 

Lest  we  should  lap  him  up  in  cloth  of  lead. 
Silenced  forever  — craven  — a man  of  plots, 
Craft,  poisonous  counsels,  wayside  ambush- 
ings  — ^ 

No  fault  of  thine  : let  Kay,  the  seneschal. 
Look  to  thy  wants,  and  send  thee  satisfied  — 
Accursed,  who  strikes  nor  lets  the  hand  be 
seen  ! ” 

And  many  another  suppliant  crying  came 
With  noise  of  ravage  wrought  by  beast  and 
man. 

And  evermore  a knight  w’ould  ride  away. 

Last  Gareth  leaning  both  hands  heavily 
Down  on  the  shoulders  of  the  twain,  his 
men, 


310 


CARET//  A ATE  LYNETTE, 


Approach’d  between  them  toward  the  King, 
and  ask’d, 

A boon,  Sir  King  (his  voice  was  all 
ashamed), 

For  see  ye  not  how  weak  and  hungerworn 
I seem  — leaning  on  these  ? grant  me  to 
' serve 

For  meat  and  drink  among  thy  kitchen- 
knaves 

A twelvemonth  and  a day,  nor  seek  my 
name. 

Hereafter  I will  fight.” 

To  him  the  King, 

“ A goodly  youth  and  worth  a goodlier 
boon  ! 

But  an  thou  wilt  no  goodlier,  then  must 
Kay, 

The  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks  be 
thine.” 

He  rose  and  past ; then  Kay,  a man  of 
mien 

Wan-sallow  as  the  plant  that  feels  itself 
Root-bitten  by  white  lichen, 

“ Lo  ye  now  ! 

This  fellow  hath  broken  from  some  Abbey, 
where, 

God  wot,  he  had  not  beef  and  brewis  enow. 
However  that  might  chance  ! but  an  he 
work, 

Like  any  pigeon  will  I cram  his  crop. 

And  sleeker  shall  he  shine  than  any  hog.” 

Then  Lancelot  standing  near,  “ Sir  Senes- 
chal, 

Sleuth-hound  thou  knowest,  and  gray,  and 
all  the  hounds  ; 

A horse  thou  knowest,  a man  thou  dost  not 
know  : 

Broad  brows  and  fair,  a fluent  hair  and  fine. 
High  nose,  a nostril  large  and  fine,  and 
hands 

Large,  fair  and  fine  ! — Some  young  lad’s 
mystery  — 

But,  or  from  sheepcot  or  king’s  hall,  the 
boy 

Is  noble  matured.  Treat  him  with  all  grace. 
Lest  he  should  come  to  shame  thy  judging 
of  him.” 

Then  Kay,  “ What  murmurest  thou  of 
mystery  ? 

Think  ye  this  fellow  will  poison  the  King’s 
dish  ? 

Nay,  for  he  spake  too  fool-like  : mystery  ! 
Tut,  an  the  lad  were  noble,  he  had  ask’d 
For  horse  and  armor:  fair  and  fine,  for- 
sooth ! 

Sir  Fine-face,  Sir  Fair-hands?  but  see  thou 
to  it 

That  thine  own  fineness,  Lancelot,  some  fine 
day 

Undo  thee  not  — and  leave  my  man  to  me.” 

So  Gareth  all  for  ^lory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen  .vassalage  ; 


Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the  door. 
And  couch’d  at  night  with  grimy  kitchen- 
knaves. 

And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantl}'. 

But  Kay  the  seneschal  who  loved  him  not 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labor  him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and  set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or  hew 
wood. 

Or  grosser  tasks  ; and  Gareth  bow’d  himself 
With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and  wrought 
All  kind  of  service  with  a noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 

And  when  the  thralls  had  talk  among  them- 
selves, 

And  one  w'ould  praise  the  love  that  linkt  the 
King 

And  Lancelot — how  the  King  had  saved  his 
life 

In  battle  twice,  and  Lancelot  once  the 
King’s  — 

For  Lancelot  was  the  first  in  Tournament, 
But  Arthur  mightiest  on  the  battle-field  — 
Gareth  was  glad.  Or  if  some  other  told. 
How  once  the  wandering  forester  at  dawn, 
Far  over  the  blue  tarns  and  hazy  seas. 

On  Caer-Eryri’s  highest  found  the  King, 

A naked  babe,  of  whom  the  Prophet  spake, 

“ He  passes  to  the  Isle  Avilion, 

He  passes  and  is  heal’d  and  cannot  die  ” — 
Gareth  was  glad.  But  if  their  talk  were 
foul, 

Then  would  he  whistle  rapid  as  any  lark. 

Or  carol  some  old  roundelay,  and  so  loud 
That  first  they  mock’d,  but,  after,  reverenced 
him. 

Or  Gareth  telling  some  prodigious  tale 
Of  knights,  who  sliced  a red  life-bubbling 
way 

Thro’  twenty  folds  of  tw’isted  dragon,  held 
All  in  a gap-mouth’d  circle  his  good  mates 
Lying  or  sitting  round  him,  idle  hands. 
Charm’d  ; till  Sir  Kay,  the  seneschal,  would 
come 

Blustering  upon  them,  like  a sudden  wind 
Among  dead  leaves,  and  drive  them  all 
apart. 

Or  when  the  thralls  had  sport  among  them- 
selves. 

So  there  were  any  trial  of  mastery. 

He,  by  two  yards  in  casting  bar  or  stone 
Was  counted  best ; and  if  there  chanced  a 
joust. 

So  that  Sir  Kay  nodded  him  leave  to  go. 
Would  hurry  thither,  and  when  he  saw  the 
knights 

Clashdike  the  coming  and  retiring  wave. 
And  the  spear  spring,  and  good  horse  reel, 
the  boy 

Was  half  beyond  himself  for  ecstasy. 

So  for  a month  he  wrought  among  the 
thralls ; 

But  in  the  weeks  that  follow’d,  the  good 
Queen, 

Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him  swear. 
And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle,  sent. 
Between  the  increscent  and  decrescent  moon. 


GARETH  AAE  LYNETTE.  311 


Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from  his 
vow. 

This,  Gareth  hearing  from  a squire  of  Lot 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  at  tourney  once, 
When  both  were  children,  and  in  lonely 
haunts 

Would  scratch  a ragged  oval  on  the  sand. 
And  each  at  either  dash  from  either  end  — 
Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than  Gareth 
joy. 

He  laugh’d ; he  sprang.  “ Out  of  the 
smoke,  at  once 

I leap  from  Satan’s  foot  to  Peter’s  knee  — 
These  news  be  mine,  none  other’s  — nay,  the 
King’s  — 

Descend  into  the  city  ” : whereon  he  sought 
The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told  him 
all. 

“ I have  stagger’d  thy  strong  Gawain  in  a 
tilt 

For  pastime  ; yea,  he  said  it : joust  can  I. 
Make  me  thy  knight  — in  secret!  let  my 
name 

Be  hidd  ’n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I 
spring 

Like  flame  from  ashes.” 

Here  the  King’s  calm  eye 
Fell  on,  and  check’d,  and  made  him  flush, 
and  bow 

Lowly,  to  kiss  his  hand,  who  answer’d  him. 

Son,  the  good  mother  let  me  know  thee 
here, 

And  sent  her  wish  that  I would  yield  thee 
thine. 

Make  thee  my  knight?  my  knights  are 
sworn  to  vows 

Of  utter  hardihood,  utter  gentleness, 

And  loving,  utter  faithfulness  in  love, 

And  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King.” 

Then  Gareth,  lightly  springing  from  his 
knees, 

“ My  King,  for  hardihood  I can  promise 
thee. 

For  uttermost  obedience  make  demand 
Of  whom  ye  gave  me  to,  the  Seneschal, 

No  mellow  master  of  the  meats  and  drinks  1 
And  as  for  love,  God  wot,  I love  not  yet, 

But  love  I shall,  God  willing.” 

And  the  King  — 
“ Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret  ? yea,  but 
he. 

Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man. 

And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must 
know.” 

“ Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let  Lance- 
lot know, 

Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest  1 ” 

And  the  King  — 
/ But  wherefore  would  ye  men  should  won- 
der at  you  ? 

Nay,  rather  for  the  sake  of  me,  their  King, 


And  the  deed’s  sake  my  knighthood  do  the 
deed. 

Than  to  be  noised  of.” 

Merrily  Gareth  ask’d, 
“ Have  I not  earn’d  my  cake  in  baking  of 
it? 

Let  be  my  name  until  I make  my  name  ! 

My  deeds  will  speak  : it  is  but  for  a day,” 
So  with  a kindly  hand  on  Gareth’s  arm 
Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half-unvvillingly 
Loving  his  lusty  youthhood  yielded  to  him. 
Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily, 

“ I have  given  him  the  first  quest : he  is  not 
proven. 

Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this  in 
hall, 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far  away. 
Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see 
Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta’en  nor 
slain.” 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into  the 
hall 

A damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  a brow 
May-blossom,  and  a cheek  of  apple-blossom. 
Hawk-eyes;  and  lightly  was  her  slender 
nose 

Tip-tilted  like  the  petal  of  a flower  ; 

She  into  hall  past  with  her  page  and  cried, 

“ O King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe  with- 
out, 

See  to  the  foe  within  I bridge,  ford,  beset 
By  bandits,  every  one  that  owns  a tower 
The  - Lord  for  half  a league.  Why  sit  ye 
there  ? 

Rest  would  I not,  Sir  King,  an  I were 
king. 

Till  ev’n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 
From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar-cloth 
From  that  blest  blood  it  is  a sin  to  spill.” 

“ Comfort  thyself,”  said  Arthur,  “ I nor 
mine 

Rest : so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows  they 
swore. 

The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall  be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 

What  is  thy  name  ? thy  need  ? 

“ My  name?  ” she  said  — 
“ Lynette  my  name ; noble  ; my  need,  a 
knight 

To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 

A lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands. 

And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  myself. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous  : a river 
Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living-place  ; 
And  o’er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three 
knights 

Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a fourth. 
And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds  her 
stay’d 

In  her  own  castle  and  so  besieges  her 
To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed  with 
him  : 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


And  but  delays  his  purport  till  thou  send 
To  do  the  battle  with  him,  thy  chief  man 
Sir  Lancelot  whom  he  trusts  to  overthrow, 
Then  wed,  with  glory;  but  she  will  not  wed 
Save  whom  she  loveth,  or  a holy  life. 

Now  therefore  have  I come  for  Lancelot.” 

Then  Arthur  mindful  of  Sir  Gareth  ask’d, 
“ Damsel,  ye  know  this  Order  lives  to  crush 
All  wrongers  of  the  Realm.  But  say,  these 
four. 

Who  be  they  ? What  the  fashion  of  the 
men  ? ” 

“ They  be  of  foolish  fashion,  O Sir  King, 
The  fashion  of  that  old  knight-errantry 
Who  ride  abroad  and  do  but  what  they  will ; 
Courteous  or  bestial  from  the  moment, 

Such  as  have  nor  law  nor  king ; and  three  of 
these 

Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves  the 
Day, 

Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and  Evening- 
Star, 

Being  strong  fools ; and  never  a whit  more 
wise 

The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  arm’d  in  black, 
A huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery. 

He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener 
Death, 

And  wears  a helmet  mounted  with  a skull 
And  bears  a skeleton  figured  on  his  arms, 

To  show  that  who  may  slay  or  scape  the 
three 

Slain  by  himself  shall  enter  endless  night. 
And  all  these  four  be  fools,  but  mighty  men, 
And  therefore  am  I come  for  Lancelot.” 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call’d  from  where  he 
rose, 

A head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the  throng, 
“ A boon.  Sir  King — this  quest  ! ” then  — 
for  lie  mark’d 

Kay  near  him  groaning  like  a wounded  bull  — 
“ Yea,  King,  thou  knowest  thy  kitchen- 
knave  am  I, 

And  mighty  thro’  thy  meats  and  drinks  am  I, 
And  I can  topple  over  a hundred  such. 

Thy  promise,  King,”  and  Arthur  glancing  at 
him. 

Brought  down  a momentary  brow.  “ Rough, 
sudden. 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight  — 

Go  therefore,”  and  all  hearers  were  amazed. 

But  on  the  damsel’s  forehead  shame,  pride, 
w'rath. 

Slew  the  May-w'hite  : she  lifted  either  arm, 

“ Fie  on  thee.  King  ! I ask’d  for  thy  chief 
knight. 

And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a kitchen- 
knave.” 

Then  ere  a man  in  hall  could  stay  her,  turn’d. 
Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 
Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street,  and 
past 

The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  without, 
beside 


The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  “ kitchen- 
knave.” 

Now  two  great  entries  open’d  from  the 
hall, 

At  one  end  one,  that  gave  upon  a range 
Of  level  pavement  where  the  King  would 
pace 

At  sunrise,  gazing  over  plain  and  wood. 

And  down  from  this  a lordly  stairway  sloped 
Till  lost  in  blowing  trees  and  tops  of  towers. 
And  out  by  this  main  doorway  past  the  King. 
But  one  was  counter  to  the  hearth,  and  rose 
High  that  the  highest-crested  helm  could  ride 
Therethro’  nor  graze  : and  by  this  entry  fled 
The  damsel  in  her  wrath,  and  on  to  this 
Sir  Gareth  strode,  and  saw  without  the  door 
King  Arthur’s  gift,  the  worth  of  half  a town, 
A warhprse  of  the  best,  and  near  it  stood 
The  two  that  out  of  north  had  follow’d  him. 
This  bare  a maiden  shield,  a casque;  that  held 
The  horse,  the  spear;  whereat  Sir  Gareth 
loosed 

A cloak  that  dropt  from  collar-bone  to  heel, 
A cloth  of  roughest  w-eb,  and  cast  it  dowm, 
And  from  it  like  a fuel-smother’d  fire. 

That  lookt  half-dead,  brake  bright,  and 
flash’d  as  those 

Dull-coated  things,  that  making  slide  apart 
Their  dusk  wing-cases,  all  beneath  there 
burns 

A jewel’d  harness,  ere  they  pass  and  fly. 

So  Gareth  ere  he  parted  flashed  in  arms. 
Then  while  he  donn’d  the  helm,  and  took 
the  shield 

And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a spear,  of 

Storm-strengthen’d  on  <i  windy  site,  and  tipt 
With  trenchant  steel,  around  him  slowly  prest 
The  people,  and  from  out  of  kitchen  came 
The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who  had 
work’d 

Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could  but 
love. 

Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps  and 
cried, 

“ God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellow- 
ship ! ” 

And  on  thro’  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth  rode 
Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  without  the 
gate. 

So  Gareth  past  with  joy  ; but  as  the  cur  ^ 
Pluckt  from  the  cur  he  fights  with,  ere  his 
cause 

Be  cool’d  by  fighting,  follow's.  being  named, 
His  owmer,  but  remembers  all,  and  growls 
Remembering,  so  Sir  Kay  beside  the  door 
Mutter’d  in  scorn  of  Gareth  whom  he  used 
To  harry  and  hustle. 

“ Bound  upon  a quest 
With  horse  and  arms  — the  King  hath  past 
his  time  — 

My  scullion  knave  ! Thralls  to  your  work 
again. 

For  an  your  fire  be  low  ye  kindle  mine  ! 

Will  there  be  dawn  in  West  and  eve  in  East? 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


313 


Begone  ! — my  knave  ! — belike  and  like  enow 
Some  old  head-blow  not  heeded  in  his  youth 
So  shook  his  wits  they  wander  in  his  prime  — 
Crazed  ! How  the  villain  lifted  up  his  voice, 
Nor  shamed  to  bawl  himself  a kitchen-knave. 
Tut : he  was  tame  and  meek  enow  with  me, 
Till  peacock’d  up  with  Lancelot’s  noticing. 
Well  — I will  after  my  loud  knave,  and  learn 
Whether  he  know  me  for  his  master  yet. 

Out  of  the  smoke  he  came,  and  so  my  lance 
Hold,  by  God’s  grace,  he  shall  into  the 
mipe  — 

Thence,  if  the  King  awaken  from  his  craze, 
Into  the  smoke  again.” 


Was  nigh  to  burst  with  violence  of  the  beat, 

Perforce  she  stay’d,  and  overtaken  spoke. 

” What  doest  thou,  scullion,  in  my  fellow- 
ship? 

Deem’st  thou  that  I accept  thee  aught  the 
more 

Or  love  thee  better,  that  by  some  device 

Full  cowardly,  or  by  mere  unhappiness, 

Thou  hast  overthrown  and  slain  thy  master 
— thou  1 — 

Dish-washer  and  broach- turner,  loon!  — to 
me 

Thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen  as  before.” 


But  Lancelot  said, 
” Kay,  wherefore  will  ye  go  against  the  King, 
For  that  did  never  he  whereon  ye  rail, 

But  ever  meekly  served  the  King  in  thee? 
Abide  : take  counsel ; for  this  lad  is  great 
And  lusty,  and  knowing  both  of  lance  and 
sword.” 

“Tut,  tell  not  me,”  said  Kay,  “ye  are  over- 
fine 

To  mar  stout  knaves  with  foolish  courtesies.” 
Then  mounted,  on  thro’  silent  faces  rode 
Down  the  slope  city,  and  out  beyond  the 
gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering  yet 
Muttered  the  damsel,  “ Wherefore  did  the 
King 

Scorn  me  ? for,  were  Sir  Lancelot  lackt,  at 
least 

He  might  have  yielded  to  me  one  of  those 
Who  tilt  for  lady’s  love  and  glory  here. 
Rather  than  — O sweet  heaven  1 O fie  upon 
him  — 

His  kitchen-knave.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
(And  there  were  none  but  few  goodlier  than 

. . 

Shining  in  arms,  “ Damsel,  the  quest  is  mine. 
Lead,  and  I follow.”  She  thereat,  as  one 
That  smells  a foul-flesh’d  agaric  in  the  holt. 
And  deems  it  carrion  of  some  woodland  thing. 
Or  shrew%  or  weasel,  nipt  her  slender  nose 
With  petulant  thumb  and  finger  shrilling, 
“ Hence  ! 

Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
And  look  who  comes  behind,”  for  there  was 
Kay. 

“Knowest  thou  not  me?  thy  master?  I am 
Kay. 

We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth.” 

And  Gareth  to  him, 
“ Master  no  more  ! too  w'ell  I know  thee,  ay — 
The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur’s  hall.” 
“ Have  at  thee  then,”  said  Kay : they 
shock’d,  and  Kay 

Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried  again, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow,”  and  fast  away  she  fled. 

But  after  sod  and  shingle  ceased  to  fly 
Behind  her,  and  the  heart  of  her  good  horse 


“Damsel,”  Sir  Gareth  answer’d  gently, 
“ say 

Whate’er  ye  will,  but  whatsoe’er  ye  say, 

I leave  not  till  I finish  this  fair  quest. 

Or  die  therefor.” 

“Ay,  wilt  thou  finish  it? 
Sweet  lord,  how  like  a noble  knight  he  talks  ! 
The  listening  rogue  hath  caught  the  manner 
of  it. 

But,  knave,  anon  thou  shalt  be  met  with, 
knave. 

And  then  by  such  a one  that  thou  for  all 
The  kitchen  brewis  that  was  ever  supt 
Shalt  not  once  dare  to  look  him  in  the  face.” 

“ I shall  assay,”  said  Gareth  with  a smile 
That  madden’d  her,  and  away  she  flash’d 
again 

Down  the  long  avenues  of  a boundless  wood. 
And  Gareth  following  was  again  beknaved. 

“ Sir  Kitchen-knave,  I have  miss’d  the 
only  way 

Where  Arthur’s  men  are  set  along  the  wood  ; 
The  wood  is  nigh  as  full  of  thieves  as  leaves  ; 
If  both  be  slain,  I am  rid  of  thee ; but  yet. 
Sir  Scullion,  canst  thou  use  that  spit  of  thine? 
Fight,  an  thou  canst : I have  miss’d  the 
only  way.” 

So  till  the  dusk  that  followed  evensong 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled  : 

Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted,  saw, 
Bowl-shaped,  thro’  tops  of  many  thousand 
pines 

A gloomy-gladed  hollow  slowly  sink 
To  westward  — in  the  deeps  whereof  a mere. 
Round  as  the  red  eye  of  an  Eagle-owl, 
Under  the  half-dead  sunset  glared  ; and  cries 
Ascended,  and  there  brake  a servingman 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and  crying, 
“ They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him  in 
the  mere.” 

Then  Gareth,  “Bound  am  I to  right  the 
wrong’d. 

But  straitlier  bound  am  I to  bide  with  thee.” 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contemptuously, 
“ Lead  and  1 follow,”  Gareth  cried  again, 

“ Follow,  I lead  ! ” so  down  among  the  pines 
He  plunged,  and  there,  black-shadow’d  nigh 
the  mere. 

And  mid-thigh-deep  in  bulrushes  and  reed. 


314  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE. 


Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a seventh  along, 

A stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him  in  it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but  three 
Fled  thro’  the  pines;  and  Gareth  loosed 
the  stone 

From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  beside 
Tumbled  it ; oilily  bubbled  up  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free 
feet 

Set  him,  a stalwart  Baron,  Arthur’s  friend. 

“Well  that  ye  came,  or  else  these  caitiff 
rogues 

Had  wreak’d  themselves  on  me  ; good  cause 
is  theirs 

To  hate  me,  for  my  wont  hath  ever  been 
To  catch  my  thief,  and  then  like  verrnin  here 
Drown  him,  and  with  a stone  about  his  neck ; 
And  under  this  wan  water  many  of  them 
Lie  rotting,  but  at  night  let  go  ihe  stone. 
And  rise,  and  flickering  in  a grimly  light 
Dance  on  the  mere.  Good  now,  ye  have 
saved  a life 

Worth  somewhat  as  the  cleanser  of  this 
wood. 

And  fain  would  I reward  thee  worshipfully. 
What  guerdon  will  ye  ?” 

Gareth  sharply  spake. 
None  ! for  the  deed’s  sake  have  I done  the 
deed. 

In  uttermost  obedience  to  the  King. 

But  will  ye  yield  this  damsel  harborage  ? ” 

Whereat  the  Baron  saying,  “ I well  be- 
lieve 

Ye  be  of  Arthur’s  Table,”  a light  laugh 
Broke  from  Lynette,  “Ay,  truly  of  a truth. 
And  in  a sort,  being  Arthur’s  kitchen- 
knave  ! — 

But  deem  not  I accept  thee  aught  the  more. 
Scullion,  for  running  sharply  with  thy  spit 
Down  on  a rout  of  craven  foresters. 

A thresher  with  his  flail  had  scatter’d  them. 
Nay  — for  thou  smellest  of  the  kitchen  still. 
But  an  this  lord  will  yield  us  harborage, 
Well.” 

So  she  spake.  A league  beyond  the  wood. 
All  in  a full-fair  manor  and  a rich. 

His  towers  where  that  day  a feast  had  been 
Held  in  high  hall,  and  many  a viand  left. 
And  many  a costly  cate,  received  the  three. 
And  there  they  placed  a peacock  in  his  pride 
Before  the  damsel,  and  the  Baron  set 
Gareth  beside  her,  but  at  once  she  rose. 

“ Meseems,  that  here  is  much  discourtesy. 
Setting  this  knave.  Lord  Baron,  at  my  side. 
Hear  me  — this  morn  I stood  in  Arthur’s 
hall. 

And  pray’d  the  King  would  grant  me  Lance- 
lot 

To  fight  the  brotherhood  of  Day  and  Night  — 
The  last  a monster  unsubduable 
Of  any  save  of  him  for  whom  I call’d  — 
Suddenly  bawls  this  frontless  kitchen-knave, 
‘ The  quest  is  mine  ; thy  kitchen-knave  am  I, 


And  mighty  thro’  thy  meats  and  drinks 
am  1.’ 

Then  Arthur  all  at  once  gone  mad  replies, 

‘ Go  therefore,’  and  so  gives  the  quest  to 
him  — 

Him  — here — a villain  fitter  to  stick  swine 
Than  ride  abroad  redressing  women’s  wrong. 
Or  sit  beside  a noble  gentlewoman.” 

Then  half-ashamed  and  part-amazed,  the 
lord 

Now  look’d  at  one  and  now  at  other,  left 
The  damsel  by  the  peacock  in  his  pride, 

And,  seating  Gareth  at  another  board, 

Sat  down  beside  him,  ate  and  then  began. 

“ Friend,  whether  ye  be  kitchen-knave,  or 
not. 

Or  whether  it  be  the  maiden’s  fantasy. 

And  whether  she  be  mad,  or  else  the  King, 
Or  both  or  neither,  or  thyself  be  mad, 

I ask  not : but  thou  strikest  a strong  stroke. 
For  strong  thou  art  and  goodly  therewithal. 
And  saver  of  my  life  ; and ‘therefore  now, 
For  here  be  mighty  men  to  joust  with,  weigh 
Whether  thou  wilt  not  with  thy  damsel  back 
To  crave  again  Sir  Lancelot  of  the  King. 
Thy  pardon  ; I but  speak  for  thine  avail. 
The  saver  of  my  life.” 

And  Gareth  said, 

“ Full  pardon,  but  I follow  up  the  quest. 
Despite  of  Day  and  Night  and  Death  and 
Hell.” 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose  life  he 
saved 

Had,  some  brief  space,  convey’d  them  on 
their  way 

And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Gareth 
spake, 

“ Lead  and  I follow.”  Haughtily  she  re- 
plied, 

“ I fly  no  more  : I allow  thee  for  an  hour. 
Lion  and  stoat  have  isled  together,  knave, 

In  time  of  flood.  Nay,  futhermore,  me- 
thinks 

Some  ruth  is  mine  for  thee.  Back  wilt  thou, 
fool  ? 

For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow  ^ 

And  slay  thee  : then  will  I to  court  again. 
And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding  me 
My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his  hearth.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer’d  courteously, 
“ Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I will  do  my  deed. 
Allow  me  for  mine  hour,  and  thou  wilt  find 
My  fortunes  all  as  fair  as  hers,  who  lay 
Among  the  ashes  and  wedded  the  King’s 
son.” 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long 
loops 

Wherethro’  the  serpent  river  coil’d,  they 
came. 

Rough-thicketed  were  the  banks  and  steep  ; 
the  stream 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE,  315 


Full,  narrow  ; this  a bridge  of  single  arc 
Took  at  a leap ; and  on  the  further  side 
Arose  a silk  pavilion,  gay  with  gold 
In  streaks  and  rays,  and  all  Lent-lily  in  hue. 
Save  that  the  dome  was  purple,  and  above, 
Crimson,  a slender  banneret  fluttering. 

And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior  paced 
Unarm’d,  and  calling,  “ Damsel,  is  this  he. 
The  champion  ye  have  brought  from 
Arthur’s  hall? 

For  whom  we  let  thee  pass.”  “ Nay,  nay,” 
she  said, 

“Sir  Morning-Star.  The  King  in  utter 
scorn 

Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent  thee 
here 

His  kitchen-knave  : and  look  thou  to  thyself : 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly. 

And  slay  thee  unarm’d  : he  is  not  knight  but 
knave.” 

Then  at  his  call,  “ O daughters  of  the 
Dawn, 

And  servants  of  the  Morning-Star,  approach, 
Arm  me,”  from  out  the  silken  curtain-folds 
Barefooted  and  bareheaded  three  fair  girls 
In  gilt  and  rosy  raiment  came  : their  feet 
In  dewy  grasses  glisten’d  ; and  the  hair 
All  over  glanced  with  dewdrop  or  with  gem 
Like  sparkles  in  the  stone  Avanturine. 

These  arm’d  him  in  blue  arms,  and  gave  a 
shield 

Blue  also,  and  thereon  the  morning  star. 
And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight. 
Who  stood  a moment,  ere  his  horse  was 
brought, 

Glorying  ; and  in  the  stream  beneath  him, 
shone, 

Immingled  with  Heaven’s  azure  waveringly. 
The  gay  pavilion  and  the  naked  feet. 

His  arms,  the  rosy  raiment,  and  the  star. 

Then  she  that  watch’d  him,  “Wherefore 
stare  ye  so  ? 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear  : there  yet  is  time  : 
Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to  horse. 
Who  will  cry  shame  ? Thou  art  not  knight 
but  knave.” 

Said  Gareth,  “ Damsel,  whether  knave  or 
knight. 

Far  liever  had  I fight  a score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 
Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights  for 
thee  ; 

But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro’  mine  arms,  I 
know 

That  I shall  overthrow  him.” 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,  being  mounted,  cried  from  o’er  the 
the  bridge, 

“ A kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn  of  me  ! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
For  this  were  shame  to  do  him  further  wrong 
Than  set  him  on  his  feet,  and  take  his  horse 
And  arms,  and  so  return  him  to  the  King. 


Come,  therefore,  leave  thy  lady  lightly, 
knave. 

Avoid  : for  it  beseemeth  not  a knave 
To  ride  with  such  a lady.” 

“ Dog,  thou  best. 
I spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine 
own.” 

He  spake  ; and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shock’d  on  the  central  bridge,  and  either 
spear 

Bent  but  not  brake,  and  either  knight  at  once, 
Hurl’d  as  a stone  from  out  of  a catapult 
Beyond  his  horse’s  crupper  and  the  bridge. 
Fell,  as  if  dead  ; but  quickly  rose  and  drew. 
And  Gareth  lash’d  so  fiercely  with  his  brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the 
bridge. 

The  damsel  crying,  “Well-stricken,  kitchen- 
knave  ! ” 

Till  Gareth’s  shield  was  cloven ; but  one 
stroke 

Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the 
ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall’n,  “Take  not  my  life  : 
I yield.” 

And  Gareth,  “ So  this  damsel  ask  it  of  me 
Good — I accord  it  easily  as  a grace.” 

She  reddening,  “Insolent  scullion:  I of 
thee  ? 

I bound  to  thee  for  any  favor  ask’d  ! ” 

“ Then  shall  he  die.”  And  Gareth  there 
unlaced 

His  helmet  as  to  slay  him,  but  she  shriek’d, 
“ Be  not  so  hardy,  scullion,  as  to  slay 
One  nobler  than  thyself.”  “Damsel,  thy 
charge 

Is  an  abounding  pleasure  to  me.  Knight, 
Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.  Arise 
And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur’s  hall,  and  say 
His  kitchen-knave  hath  sent  thee.  See 
thou  crave 

His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his  laws. 
Myself,  when  T return,  will  plead  for  thee. 
Thy  shield  is  mine  — farewell ; and,  damsel, 
thou 

Lead,  and  I follow.” 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 
Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake, 
“ Methought, 

Knave,  when  I watch’d  thee  striking  on  the 
bridge 

The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A little  faintlier  : but  the  wind  hath  changed  : 
I scent  it  twentyfold.”  And  then  she  sang, 
“ ‘ O morning  star  ’ (not  that  tall  felon  there 
Whom  thou  by  sorcery  or  unhappiness 
Or  some  device,  hast  foully  overthrown), 

‘ O morning  star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 

O star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven  true. 
Smile  sweetly,  thou  I my  love  hath  smiled  on 
me.’ 

“ But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and 
away. 

For  bard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a ford  — 


3i6 


GARETH  AND  LVNETTE, 


The  second  brother  in  their  fool’s  parable  — 
Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to  boot. 
Care  not  for  shame  : thou  art  not  knight  but 
knave.” 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer’d,  laugh- 
ingly, 

“ Parables?  Hear  a parable  of  the  knave. 
When  I was  kitchen-knave  among  the  rest 
Fierce  was  the  hearth,  and  one  of  my  co- 
mates 

Own’d  a rough  dog,  to  whom  he  cast  his 
coat, 

‘ Guard  it,’  and  there  was  none  to  meddle 
with  it. 

And  such  a coat  art  thou,  and  thee  the 
King 

Gave  me  to  guard,  and  such  a dog  am  I, 

To  worry,  and  not  to  flee  — and  — knight  or 
knave  — 

The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full 
knight 

Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister’s  freeing.” 

“ Ay,  Sir  Knave  ! 
Ay,  knave,  because  thou  strikest  as  a knight. 
Being  but  knave,  I hate  thee  all  the  more.” 

“ Fair  damsel,  ye  should  worship  me  the 
more. 

That,  being  but  knave,  I throw  thine  ene- 
mies.” 

“ Ay,  ay,”‘  she  said,  “ but  thou  shalt  meet 
thy  match.” 

So  when  they  touch’d  the  second  river- 
loop. 

Huge  on  a huge  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 
Burnish’d  to  blinding,  shone  the  Noonday 
Sun 

Beyond  a raging  shallow.  As  if  the  flower. 
That  blows  a globe  of  after  arrowlets, 

Ten  thousand-fold  had  grown,  flash’d  the 
fierce  shield. 

All  sun  ; and  Gareth’s  eyes  had  flying  blots 
Before  them  when  he  turn’d  from  watching 
him. 

He  from  beyond  the  roaring  shallow  roar’d, 

“ What  doest  thou,  brother,  in  my  marches 
here  ? ” 

And  she  athwart  the  shallow  shrill’d  again, 

“ Here  is  a kitchen-knave  from  Arthur’s  hall 
Hath  overthrown  thy  brother,  and  hath  his 
arms.” 

“ Ugh  ! ” cried  the  Sun,  and  vizoring  up  a 
red 

And  cipher  face  of  rounded  foolishness. 
Push’d  horse  across  the  foamings  of  the  ford. 
Whom  Gareth  met  midstream ; no  room  w'as 
there 

For  lance  or  tourney-skill : four  strokes  they 
struck 

With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty ; the 
new  knight 

Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed ; but  as  the 
Sun 


Heaved  up  a ponderous  arm  to  strike  the 
fifth. 

The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream,  the 
stream 

Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash’d  away. 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart  the 
ford ; 

So  drew  him  home  ; but  he  that  would  not 
fight, 

As  being  all  bone-battered  on  the  rock, 
Yielded  ; and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the  King. 
“ Myself  when  I return  will  plead  for  thee. 
Lead,  and  I follow.”  Quietly  she  led. 

“ Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel,  changed 
again  ? ” 

“ Nay,  not  a point : nor  art  thou  victor  here. 
There  lies  a ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford ; 
His  horse  thereon  stumbled  — ay,  fori  saw 
it. 

“ ‘ O Sun  ’ (not  this  strong  fool  whom 
thou.  Sir  Knave, 

Hast  overthrown  thro’  mere-unhappiness), 

‘ O Sun,  that  wakenest  all  to  bliss  or  pain, 

O moon,  that  layest  all  to  sleep  again. 

Shine  sweetly  : twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on 
me.’ 

What  knowest  thou  of  lovesong  or  of 
love  ? 

Nay,  nay,  God  wot,  so  thouwert  nobly  born, 
Thou  hast  a pleasant  presence.  Yea,  per- 
chance, — 

“ ‘ O dewy  flowers  that  open  to  the  sun, 

O dewy  flowers  that  close  when  day  is  done. 
Blow  sweetly  : twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on 
me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  flow^ers,  except, 
belike. 

To  garnish  meats  with?  hath  not  our  good 
King 

Who  lent  me  thee,  the  flower  of  kitchendom, 
A foolish  love  for  flowers  ? what  stick  ye 
round 

The  pasty?  wherewithal  deck  the  boar’s 
head? 

Flow’ers  ? nay,  the  boar  hath  rosemaries  and 
bay. 

“ ‘ O birds,  that  warble  to  the  morning 
sky, 

O birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by. 

Sing  sweetly  : twice  m3'  love  hath  smiled  on 
me.’ 

“ What  knowest  thou  of  birds,  lark,  mavis, 
merle, 

Linnet?  what  dream  ye  when  they  utter 
forth 

May-music  growing  with  the  growing  light. 
Their  sweet  sun-worship  ? these  be  for  the 
snare 

(So  runs  thy  fancy)  these  be  for  the  spit. 
Larding  and  basting.  See  thou  have  jiot 
now 


GARETH  AND  LVNETTE, 


317 


Larded  thy  last,  except  thou  turn  and  fly. 
There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their  allegory.” 

For  there  beyond  a bridge  of  treble  bow, 
All  in  a rose-red  from  the  west,  and  all 
Naked  it  seem’d,  and  glowing  in  the  broad 
Deep-dimpled  current  underneath,  the 
knight. 

That  named  himself  the  Star  of  Evening, 
stood. 

And  Gareth,  “ Wherefore  waits  the  mad- 
man there  * 

Naked  in  open  dayshine?”  “Nay,”  she 
cried, 

“Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden’d  skins 
That  fit  him  like  his  own  ; and  so  ye  cleave 
His  armor  off  him,  these  will  turn  the 
blade.” 

Then  the  third  brother  shouted  o’er  the 
bridge, 

“ O brother-star,  why  shine  ye  here  so  low  ? 
Thy  ward  is  higher  up  : but  have  ye  slain 
The  damsel’s  champion?”  and  the  damsel 
cried, 

“No  star  of  thine,  but  shot  from  Arthur’s 
heaven 

With  all  disaster  unto  thine  and  thee  ! 

For  both  thy  younger  brethren  have  gone 
down 

Before  this  youth ; and  so  wilt  thou.  Sir 
Star ; 

Art  thou  not  old  ? ” 

“ Old,  damsel,  old  and  hard. 
Old,  with  the  might  and  breath  of  twenty 
boys.” 

Said  Gareth,  “Old,  and  over-bold  in  brag  ! 
But  that  same  strength  which  threw  the 
Morning-Star 
Can  throw  the  Evening.” 

Then  that  other  blew 
A hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 

“ Approach  and  arm  me  1 ” With  slow  steps 
from  out 

An  old  storm-beaten,  russet,  many-stain’d 
Pavilion,  forth  a grizzled  damsel  came. 

And  arm’d  him  in  old  arms,  and  brought  a 
helm 

With  but  a drying  evergreen  for  crest. 

And  gave  a shield  whereon  the  Star  of 
Even 

Half-tarnish’d  and  half-bright,  his  emblem, 
shone. 

But  when  it  glitter’d  o’er  the  saddle-bow, 
They  madly  hurl’d  together  on  the  bridge. 
And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted,  drew. 
There  met  him  drawn,  and  overthrew  him 
again. 

But  up  like  fire  he  started  : and  as  oft 
As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on  his 
knees, 

So  many  a time  he  vaulted  up  again  ; 

Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great  heart, 
Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain. 


Labor’d  within  him,  for  he  seem’d  as  one 
That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 
To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a life. 

But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 

“ Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst  not  put 
us  down  ! ” 

He  half  despairs ; so  Gareth  seem’d  to  strike 
Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the  while, 

“ Well  done,  knave-knight,  well-stricken,  O 
good  knight-knave  — 

O knave,  as  noble  as  any  of  all  the  knights  — 
Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.  I have 
prophesied  — 

Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table  Round  — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  harden’d 
skin  — 

Strike  — strike  — the  wind  will  never  change 
again.” 

And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier  smote. 
And  hew’d  great  pieces  of  his  armor  otf  him. 
But  lash’d  in  vain  against  the  harden’d  skin. 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under,  more 
Than  loud  Southwesterns,  rolling  ridge  on 
ridge. 

The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and 
springs 

Forever ; till  at  length  Sir  Gareth’s  brand 
Clash’d  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the  hilt. 

“ I have  thee  now  ” ; but  forth  that  other 
sprang. 

And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his  W'iry  arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail. 
Strangled,  but  straining  ev’n  his  uttermost 
Cast,  and  so  hurl’d  him  headlong  o’er  the 
bridge 

Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and  cried, 

“ Lead,  and  I follow.” 

But  the  damsel  said, 

“ I lead  no  longer  ; ride  thou  at  my  side  ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen-knaves. 

“ ‘ O trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy  plain, 

O rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain. 

Shine  sweetly : thrice  my  love  hath  smiled 
on  me.’ 


“ Sir,  — and,  good  faith,  I fain  had  added 
— Knight, 

But  that  I heard  thee  call  thyself  a knave,  — 
Shamed  am  I that  I so  rebuked,  reviled, 
Missaid  thee ; noble  I am  ; and  thought  the 
King 

Scorn’d  me  and  mine  ; and  now  thy  pardon, 
friend, 

For  thou  hast  ever  answer’d  courteously. 
And  wholly  bold  thou  art,  and  meek  withal 
As  any  of  Arthur’s  best,  but,  being  knave. 
Hast  mazed  my  wit ; I marvel  what  thou  art.” 

“Damsel,”  he  said,  “ye  be  not  all  to 
blame. 

Saving  that  ye  mistrusted  our  good  King 
Would  handle  scorn,  oryield  thee,  asking,  one 
Not  fit  to  cope  thy  quest.  Ye  said  your  say ; 
Mine  answer  was  my  deed.  Good  sooth  I I 
hold 


3i8  GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 


He  scarce  is  knight,  yea  but  half-man,  nor 
meet 

I’o  fight  for  gentle  damsel,  he,  who  lets 
His  heart  be  stirr’d  with  any  foolish  heat 
At  any  gentle  damsel’s  waywardness. 
Shamed  ? care  not ! thy  foul  sayings  fought 
for  me  : 

And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair,  methinks. 
There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his 
great  self, 

Hath  force  to  quell  me.” 

Nigh  upon  that  hour 

When  the  lone  hern  forgets  his  melancholy, 
Lets  down  his  other  leg,  and  stretching 
dreams 

Of  goodly  supper  in  the  distant  pool, 

Then  turn’d  the  noble  damsel  smiling  at  him. 
And  told  him  of  a cavern  hard  at  hand. 
Where  bread  and  baken  meats  and  good  red 
WMne 

Of  Southland,  which  the  Lady  Lyonors 
Had  sent  her  coming  champion,  waited  him. 

Anon  they  past  a narrow  comb  wherein 
Were  slabs  of  rock  with  figures,  knights  on 
horse 

Sculptured,  and  deckt  in  slowly  waning  hues. 
“ Sir  Knave,  my  knight,  a hermit  once  was 
here. 

Whose  holy  hand  hath  fashion’d  on  the  rock 
The  w'ar  of  Time  against  the  soul  of  man. 
And  yon  four  fools  have  suck’d  their  allegory 
From  these  damp  walls,  and  taken  but  the 
form . 

Know  ye  not  these?”  and  Gareth  lookt  and 
read  — 

In  letters  like  to  those  the  vexillary 
Hath  left  crag-carven  o’er  the  streaming 
Gelt  — 

“ Phosphorus,”  then  “ Meridies  ” — 
“ Hesperus  ” — 

“Nox”  — “Mors,”  beneath  five  figures, 
armed  men. 

Slab  after  slab,  their  faces  forward  all. 

And  running  down  the  Soul,  a Shape  that  fled 
With  broken  wings,  torn  raiment  and  loose 
hair, 

For  help  and  shelter  to  the  hermit’s  cave. 

“ Follow  the  faces,  and  we  find  it.  Look, 
Who  comes  behind  ? ” 

For  one  — delay’d  at  first 
Thro’  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
To  Camelot,  then  by  what  thereafter  chanced. 
The  damsel’s  headlong  error  thro’  the  wood — 
Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river-loops  — 
His  blue  shield-lions  cover’d — softly  drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the  star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth’s  turning  to  him,  cried, 
“ Stay,  felon  knight,  I avenge  me  for  my 
friend.” 

And  Gareth  crying  prick’d  against  the  cry ; 
But  when  they  closed — in  a moment  — at 
one  touch 

Of  that  skill’d  spear,  the  .wonder  of  the 
world  — 

Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 


That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his 
hands 

He  laugh’d  ; the  laughter  jarr’d  upon  Ly- 
nette  : 

Harshly  she  ask’d  him,  “ Shamed  and  over- 
thrown. 

And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen-knave, 
Why  laugh  ye  ? that  ye  blew  your  boast  in 
vain  ? ” 

“ Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bellicent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 

And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown  by 
whom 

I know  not,  all  thro’  mere  unhappiness  — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness  — 

Out,  sword  ; we  are  thrown  ! ” and  Lancelot 
answered,  “ Prince, 

0 Gareth  — thro’  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee  not  to  harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee  whole. 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted  him.” 

Then  Gareth,  “ Thou  — Lancelot ! — thine 
the  hand 

That  threw  me  ? An  some  chance  to  mar 
the  boast 

Thy  brethren  of  thee  make  — which  could 
not  chance  — 

Had  sent  thee  down  before  a lesser  spear 
Shamed  had  I been  and  sad  — O Lancelot — 
thou ! ” 

Whereat  the  maiden,  petulant,  “ Lancelot, 
Why  came  ye  not,  when  call’d  ? and  where- 
fore now 

Come  ye,  not  call’d  ? I gloried  in  my  knave. 
Who  being  still  rebuked,  would  answer  still 
Courteous  as  any  knight  — but  now,  if  knight. 
The  marvel  dies,  and  leaves  me  fool’d  and 
trick’d. 

And  only  wondering  wherefore  play’d  upon  : 
And  doubtful  whether  I and  mine  be  scorn’d. 
Where  should  be  truth  if  not  in  Arthur’s  hall. 
In  Arthur’s  presence?  Knight,  knave,  prince 
and  fool, 

1 hate  thee  and  forever.” 

And  Lancelot  said, 
“ Blessed  be  thou.  Sir  Gareth  ! knight  art 
thou 

To  the  King’s  best  wish.  O damsel,  be  ye 
wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  overthro^^'n? 
Thrown  have  I been,  nor  once,  but  many  a 
time. 

Victor  from  vanquish’d  issues  at  the  last. 
And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 
With  sword  we  have  not  striven  ; and  thy 
good  horse 

And  thou  art  weary  ; yet  not  less  I felt 
Thy  manhood  thro’  that  wearied  lance  of 
thine. 

Well  hast  thou  done  : for  all  the  stream  is 
freed. 

And  thou  hast  wreak’d  his  justice  on  his  foes, 
And  when  reviled,  hast  answer’d  graciously. 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE,  319 


And  makest  merry,  w hen  overthrown.  Prince, 
Knight,  • 

Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our  Table 
Round ! ” 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he  told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 

“Ay  well — ay  well — for  worse  than  being 
fool’d 

Of  others,  is  to  fool  one’s  self.  A cave. 

Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and 
drinks 

And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a honeysuckle. 

Seek,  till  we  find.”  And  w'hen  they  sought 
and  found, 

Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his  life 
Past  into  sleep  ; on  whom  the  maiden  gazed. 
“ Sound  sleep  be  thine ! sound  cause  to 
sleep  hast  thou. 

Wake  lusty  ! Seem  I not  as  tender  to  him 
As  any  mother?  Ay,  but  such  a one 
As  all  day  long  hath  rated  at  her  child. 

And  vext  his  day,  but  blesses  him  asleep  — 
Good  lord,  how  sweetly  smells  the  honey- 
suckle 

In  the  hush’d  night,  as  if  the  world  were  one 
Of  utter  peace,  and  love,  and  gentleness  ! 

O Lancelot,  Lancelot  ” — and  she  clapt  her 
hands  — 

“ Full  merry  am  I to  find  my  goodly  knave 
Is  knight  and  noble.  See  now,  sworn  have  I, 
Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me  pass. 

To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with  him. 
Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee  first ; 
Who  doubts  thee  victor  ? so  will  my  knight- 
knave 

Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplishment.” 

Said  Lancelot,  “ Peradventure  he,  ye 
name. 

May  know  my  shield.  Let  Gareth,  an  he 
will. 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my  charger, 
fresh. 

Not  to  be  spurr’d,  loving  the  battle  as  well 
As  he  that  rides  him.”  “ Lancelot-like,”  she 
said, 

“Courteous  in  this.  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in 
all.” 

And  Gareth,  wakening,  fiercely  clutch’d 
the  shield  I . . . 

“ Ramp,  ye  lance-splintering  lions,  on  whom 
all  spears 

Are  rotten  sticks  ! ye  seem  agape  to  roar  ! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your  lord  ! — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I care  for 
you. 

O noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams  virtue  — fire  — thro’  one  that  will 
not  shame 

Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under  shield. 
Hence : let  us  go. 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed.  Arthur’s  harp  tho’  sum- 
mer-wan, 


In  counter  motion  to  the  clouds,  allured 
The  glance  of  Gareth  dreaming  on  his  liege. 
A star  shot : “ Lo,”  said  Gareth,  “ the  foe 
falls  ! ” 

An  owl  whoopt ; “ Hark  the  victor  pealing 
there  ! ” 

Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 
Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent  him, 
crying, 

“Yield,  yield  him  this  again : ’t  is  he  must 
fight : 

I curse  the  tongue  that  all  thro’  yesterday 
Reviled  thee,  and  hath  wrought  on  Lance- 
lot now 

To  lend  thee  horse  and  shield  : wonders  ye 
have  done  ; 

Miracles  ye  cannot : here  is  glory  enow 
In  having  flung  the  three  : I see  thee  maim’d. 
Mangled : I swear  thou  canst  not  fling  the 
fourth.” 

“And  wherefore,  damsel?  tell  me  all  ye 
know. 

Ye  cannot  scare  me ; nor  rough  face,  or  voice. 
Brute  bulk  of  limb,  or  boundless  savagery 
Appall  me  from  the  quest.” 

“ Nay,  Prince,”  she  cried, 
“ God  wot,  I never  look’d  upon  the  face. 
Seeing  he  never  rides  abroad  by  day ; 

But  watch’d  him  have  I like  a phantom  pass 
Chilling  the  night : nor  have  I heard  the 
voice. 

Always  he  made  his  mouthpiece  of  a page 
Who  came  and  went,  and  still  reported  him 
As  closing  in  himself  the  strength  of  ten. 
And  when  his  anger  tare  him,  massacring 
Man,  woman,  lad  and  girl  — yea,  the  soft 
babe  — 

Some  hold  that  he  hath  swallow’d  infant 
flesh. 

Monster  ! O prince,  I went  for  Lancelot  first. 
The  quest  is  Lancelot’s  ; give  him  back  the 
shield.” 

Said  Gareth  laughing,  “An  he  fight  for 
this. 

Belike  he  wins  it  as  the  better  man  ; 

Thus — and  not  else  ? ” 

But  Lancelot  on  him  urged 
All  the  devisings  of  their  chivalry 
Where  one  might  meet  a mightier  than  him- 
self ; 

How  best  to  manage  horse,  lance,  sword  and 
shield. 

And  so  fill  up  the  gap  where  force  might  fail 
\\Mth  skill  and  fineness.  Instant  were  his 
words. 

Then  Gareth,  “Here  be  rules.  I know 
but  one  — 

To  dash  against  mine  enemy  and  to  win. 

Yet  have  I watch’d  thee  victor  in  the  joust. 
And  seen  thy  way.”  “ Heaven  help  thee,” 
sigh’d  Lynette. 

Then  for  a space,  and  under  cloud  that 
grew 


320 


GARETH  AND  LYNETTE, 


To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they 
rode 

In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey  halt, 
Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper’d, 
“There.” 

And  all  the  three  were  silent  seeing,  pitch’d 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 

A huge  pavilion  like  a mountain  peak 
Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the  marge. 
Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a long  black 
horn 

Beside  it  hanging ; which  Sir  Gareth  graspt. 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder  him, 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro’  all  the 
horn. 

Echo’d  the  walls;  alight  twinkled;  anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again  he 
blew ; 

Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up  and 
down 

And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows  past ; 
Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her  maids, 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to  him 
White  hands,  and  courtesy ; but  when  the 
Prince 

Three  times  had  blown — after  long  hush — 
at  last  — 

The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up. 

Thro’  those  black  foldings,  that  which  housed 
therein.  ^ 

High  on  a nightblack  horse,  in  nightblack 
arms, 

With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs  of 
Death, 

And  crown’d  with  fleshless  laughter  — some 
ten  steps  — 

In  the  half  light  — through  the  dim  dawn  — 
advanced 

The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and  spake 
no  word. 


But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly, 

“Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength 
of  ten, 

Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God  hath 
given, 

But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee  more, 

Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 

Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and  the 
clod. 

Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with  mantling 
flowers 

As  if  for  pity  ? ” But  he  spake  no  word  ; 

Which  set  the  horror  higher ; a maiden 
swoon’d ; 

The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and 
wept. 


As  dbom’d  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and 
Death ; 

Sir  Gareth’s  head  prickled  beneath  his  helm  ; 
And  ev’n  Sir  Lancelot  thro’  his  warm  blood 
felt 

Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark’d  him  were 
aghast. 


At  once  Sir  Lancelot’s  charger  fiercely 
neigh’d  — 

At  once  the  black  horse  bounded  forward 
with  him. 

Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror, 
saw 

That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and  slowly 
rose. 

But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the 
skull. 

Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and  lay. 

Then  with  a stronger  buffet  he  clove  the 

helm  , 

As  throughly  as  the  skull ; and  out  from 
this 

Issued  the  bright  face  of  a blooming  boy 
Fresh  as  a flower  new-born,  and  crying,  ^ 

“ Knight, 

Slay  me  pot : my  three  brethren  bad  me  do  } 

it, 

To  make  a horror  all  about  the  house. 

And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors.  t 

They  never  dream’d  the  passes  would  be  f 

past.” 

Answer’d  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one  ; 

Not  many  a moon  his  younger,  “My  fair 

child,  ; 

What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the 

chief  knight  , I 

Of  Arthur’s  hall  ? ” “ Fair  Sir,  they  bad  me  | 
doit.  * 

They  hate  the  King,  and  Lancelot,  the  ? 

King’s  friend. 

They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on  the  < 

stream,  t 

They  never  dream’d  the  passes  could  be  ‘ 

past.”  ‘ 

Then  sprang  the  happier  day  from  under-  ■ 

ground ; 

And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with 
dance 

And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over  Death, 

As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 
And  horrors  only  prov’n  a blooming  boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived,  and  Gareth  won  the 
quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 

But  he,  that  told  it  later,  says  Lynette. 


r 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT.  321 

THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Dagonet,  the  fool,  whom  Gawain  in  his 
moods 

Had  made  mock-knight  of  Arthur’s  Table 
Round, 

At  Camelot,  high  above  the  yellowing  woods, 
Danced  like  a wither’d  leaf  before  the  Hall. 
And  toward  him  from  the  Hall,  with  harp  in 
hand. 

And  from  the  crown  thereof  a carcanet 
Of  ruby  swaying  to  and  fro,  the  prize 
Of  Tristram  in  the  jousts  of  yesterday. 

Came  Tristram,  saying,  “ Why  skip  ye  so. 
Sir  Fool  ? ” 

For  Arthur  and  Sir  Lancelot  riding  once 
Far  down  beneath  a finding  wall  of  rock 
Heard  a child  wail.  A stump  of  oak  half- 
dead. 

From  roots  like  some  black  coil  of  carven 
snakes 

Clutch’d  at  the  crag,  and  started  thro’  mid- 
air 

Bearing  an  eagle’s  nest : and  thro’  the  tree 
Rush’d  ever  a rainy  wind,  and  thro’  the 
wind 

Pierced  ever  a child’s  cry:  and  crag  and 
tree" 

Scaling,  Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous  nest, 
This  ruby  necklace  thrice  around  her  neck. 
And  all  unscarr’d  from  beak  or  talon, 
brought 

A maiden  babe  ; which  Arthur  pitying  took. 
Then  gave  it  to  his  Queen  to  rear : the 
Queen 

But  coldly  acquiescing,  in  her  white  arms 
Received,  and  after  loved  it  tenderly. 

And  named  it  Nestling  ; so  forgot  herself 
A moment,  and  her  cares ; till  that  young 
life 

Being  smitten  in  mid-heaven  w'ith  mortal 
cold 

Past  from  her ; and  in  time  the  carcanet 
Vext  her  with  plaintive  memories  of  the 
child  : 

So  she,  delivering  it  to  Arthur,  said, 

“Take  thou  the  jewels  of  this  dead  inno- 
cence. 

And  make  them,  an  thou  wilt,  a tourney- 
prize.” 

To  whom  the  King,  “ Peace  to  thine 
eagle-borne 

Dead  nestling,  and  this  honor  after  death. 
Following  thy  will!  but,  O my  Queen,  I 
muse 

Why  ye  not  wear  on  arm,  or  neck,  or  zone. 
Those  diamonds  that  I rescued  from  the 
tarn. 

And  Lancelot  won,  methought,  for  thee  to 
wear.” 


“ Would  rather  ye  had  let  them  fall,”  she 
cried, 

“ Plunge  and  be  lost  — ill-fated  as  they 
were, 

A bitterness  to  me  1 — ye  look  amazed. 

Not  knowing  they  were  lost  as  soon  as 
given  — 

Slid  from  my  hands,  when  I w'as  leaning 
out 

Above  the  river  — that  unhappy  child 
Past  in  her  barge  : but  rosier  luck  will  go 
With  these  rich  jewels,  seeing  that  they 
came 

Not  from  the  skeleton  of  a brother-slayer, 
But  the  sweet  body  of  a maiden  babe. 
Perchance  — who  knows  — the  purest  of 
thy  knights 

May  win  them  for  the  purest  of  my  maids.” 

She  ended,  and  the  cry  of  a great  jousts 
With  trumpet-blowings  ran  on  all  the  ways 
From  Camelot  in  among  the  faded  fields ' 

To  furthest  towers ; and  everywhere  the 
knights 

Arm’d  for  a day  of  glory  before  the  King. 

But  on  the  hither  side  of  that  loud  morn 
Into  the  hall  stagger’d,  his  visage  ribb’d 
From  ear  to  ear  with  dogwhip- weals,  his 
nose 

Bridge-broken,  one  eye  out,  and  one  hand 
off. 

And  one  with  shatter’d  fingers  dangling 
lame, 

A churl,  to  whom  indignantly  the  King, 

“ My  churl,  for  whom  Christ  died,  what 
evil  beast 

Hath  drawn  his  claws  athwart  thy  face  ? or 
fiend? 

Man  was  it  who  marr’d  Heaven’s  image  in 
thee  thus  ? ” 


Then,  sputtering  thro’  the  hedge  of  splin- 
ter’d teeth. 

Yet  strangers  to  the  tongue,  and  w'ith  blunt 
stump 

Pitch-blacken’d  sawing  the  air,  said  the 
maim’d  churl, 

“ He  took  them  and  he  drave  them  to  his 
tower  — 

Some  hold  he  was  a table-knight  of  thine  — 

A hundred  goodly  ones  — the  Red  Knight, 
he  — 

Lord,  I was  tending  swine,  and  the  Red 
Knight 

Brake  in  upon  me  and  drave  them  to  his 
tower  ; 

And  when  I call’d  upon  thy  name  as  one 

That  doest  right  by  gentle  and  by  churl. 


/ 


322 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


Maim’d  me  and  maul’d,  and  would  outright 
have  slain, 

Save  that  he  sware  me  to  a message,  say- 

, 

‘ Tell  thou  the  King  and  all  his  liars,  that  I 
Have  founded  my  Round  Table  in  the 
North, 

And  whatsoever  his  own  knights  have  sworn 
My  knights  have  sworn  the  counter  to  it  — 
and  say 

My  tower  is  full  of  harlots,  like  his  court, 

But  mine  are  worthier,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other  than  themselves  — and 
say 

My  knights  are  all  adulterers  like  his  own. 
But  mine  are  truer,  seeing  they  profess 
To  be  none  other ; and  tay  his  hour  is 
come. 

The  heathen  are  upon  him,  his  long  lance 
Broken,  and  his  Excalibur  a straw.’  ” 

Then  Arthur  turn’d  to  Kay  the  seneschal, 
“ Take  thou  my  churl,  and  tend  him  curi- 
ously 

Like  a king’s  heir,  till  all  his  hurts  be  whole. 
The  heathen  — but  that  ever-climbing  wave. 
Hurl’d  back  again  so  often  in  empty  foam. 
Hath  lain  for  years  at  rest  — and  renegades. 
Thieves,  bandits,  leavings  of  confusion, 
whom 

The  wholesome  realm  is  purged  of  other- 
where, — 

Friends,  thro’  your  manhood  and  your 
fealty,  — now 

Make  their  last  head  like  Satan  in  the 
North. 

My  younger  knights,  new-made,  in  whom 
your  flower 

Waits  to  be  solid  fruit  of  golden  deeds, 

IMove  with  me  toward  their  quelling,  which 
achieved. 

The  loneliest  ways  are  safe  from  shore  to 
shore. 

But  thou,  Sir  Lancelot,  sitting  in  my  place 
Enchair’d  to-morrow,  arbitrate  the  field  ; 

For  wherefore  shouldst  thou  care  to  mingle 
with  it. 

Only  to  yield  my  Queen  her  own  again  ? 
Speak,  Lancelot,  thou  art  silent : is  it  well  ? ” 

Thereto  Sir  Lancelot  answer’d,  “ It  is 
well : 

Yet  better  if  the  King  abide,  and  leave 
^'he  leading  of  his  younger  knights  to  me. 
Else,  for  the  King  has  will’d  it,  it  is  w-ell.” 

Then  Arthur  rose  and  Lancelot  follow-’d 
him. 

And  while  they  stood  without  the  doors,  the 
King 

7'urn’d  to  him  saying,  “ Is  it  then  so  well? 

Or  mine  the  blame  that  oft  I seem  as  he 
Of  whom  was  written,  ‘ a sound  is  in  his 
ears ’ — 

The  foot  that  loiters,  bidden  go,  — the 
glance 

'I'hat  only  seems  half-loyal  to  command,  — 

A manner  somewhat  fall’n  from  reverence  — 


Or  have  I dream’d  the  bearing  of  our  knights 
Tells  of  a manhood  ever  less  and  lower  ? 

Or  whence  the  fear  lest  this  my  realm,  up- 
rear’d. 

By  noble  deeds  at  one  with  noble  vows. 
From  flat  confusion  and  brute  violences, 

Reel  back  into  the  beast,  and  be  no  more?  ” 

He  spoke,  and  taking  all  his  younger 
knights, 

Down  the  slope  city  rode,  and  sharply  turn’d 
North  by  the  gate.  In  her  high  bower  the 
Queen, 

Working  a tapestry,  lifted  up  her  head. 
Watch’d  her  lord  pass,  and  knew  not  that 
she  sigh’d. 

Then  ran  across  her  memory  the  strange 
rhyme 

Of  bygone  Merlin,  “ Where  is  he  who  knows  ? 
From  the  great  deep  to  the  great  deep  he 
goes.” 

But  when  the  morning  of  a tournament, 

By  these  in  earnest  th^e  in  mockery  call’d 
The  Tournament  of  the  Dead  Innocence, 
Brake  with  a wet  wind  blowing,  Lancelot, 
Round  whose  sick  head  all  night,  like  birds 
of  prey. 

The  words  of  Arthur  flying  shriek’d,  arose. 
And  down  a streetway  hung  with  folds  of 
pure 

White  samite,  and  by  fountains  running 
wine. 

Where  children  sat  in  white  with  cups  of 
gold, 

Moved  to  the  lists,  and  there,  with  slow  sad 
steps 

Ascending,  fill’d  his  double-dragon’d  chair. 

He  glanced  and  saw  the  stately  galleries. 
Dame,  damsel,  each  thro’  w'orship  of  their 
Queen 

White-robed  in  honor  of  the  stainless  child. 
And  some  with  scatter’d  jewels,  like  a bank 
Of  maiden  snow  mingled  with  sparks  of  fire. 
He  lookt  but  once,  and  veil’d  his  eyes  again. 

The  sudden  trumpet  sounded  as  in  a dream 
To  ears  but  half-awaked,  then  one  low  roll 
Of  Autumn  thunder,  and  the  jousts  began  : 
And  ever  the  wind  blew,  and  yellowing  leaf 
And  gloom  and  gleam,  and  shower  and  shorn 
plume 

Went  down  it.  Sighing  weariedly,  as  one 
Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a faded  fire. 

When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past  away, 
Saf  their  great  umpire,  looking  o’er  the  lists. 
He  saw  the  laws  that  ruled  the  tournament 
Broken,  but  spake  not ; once,  a knight  cast 
down 

Before  his  throne  of  arbitration  cursed 
The  dead  babe  and  the  follies  of  the  King ; 
And  once  the  laces  of  a helmet  crack’d. 

And  show’d  him,  like  a vermin  in  its  hole, 
Modred,  a narrow  face  : anon  he  heard 
The  voice  that  billow’d  round  the  barriers 
roar 

An  ocean-sounding  welcome  to  one  knight. 


* ‘ Sir  Lancelot  from  the  perilous  nest, 
And  all  unscarr’d  from  beak  or  talon,  brought 
A maiden  babe  ; which  Arthur  pitying  took.” 


/ 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT.  323 


But  newly  enter’d,  taller  than  the  rest, 

And  armor’d  all  in  forest  green,  whereon 
There  tript  a hundred  tiny  silver  deer, 

And  wearing  but  a holly-spray  for  crest, 
With  ever-scattering  bemes,  and  on  shield 
A spear,  a harp,  a bug-.'  — Tristram  — late 
From  overseas  in  Brittany  return’d. 

And  marriage  with  a princess  of  that  realm, 
Isolt  the  White  — Sir  Tristram  of  the 
Woods  — 

Whom  Lancelot  knew,  had  held  sometime 
with  pain 

His  own  against  him,  and  now  yearn’d  to 
shake 

The  burthen  off  his  heart  in  one  full  shock 
With  Tristram  ev’n  to  death : his  strong 
hands  gript 

And  dinted  the  gilt  dragons  right  and  left, 
Until  he  groan’d  for  wrath  — so  many  of 
those, 

That  ware  their  ladies’  colors  on  the  casque. 
Drew  from  before  Sir  Tristram  to  the  bounds. 
And  there  with  gibes  and  flickering  mock- 
eries 

Stood,  while  he  mutter’d,  “ Craven  crests  ! 
O shame  ! 

What  faith  have  these  in  whom  they  sware 
to  love? 

The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more.” 

So  Tristram  won,  and  Lancelot  gave,  the 
gems. 

Not  speaking  other  word  than  “Hast  thou 
won  ? 

Art  thou  the  purest,  brother?  See,  the  hand 
Wherewith  thou  takest  is  red  ! ” to  whom 
Tristram,  half  plagued  by  Lancelot’s  lan- 
guorous mood. 

Made  answer,  “Ay,  but  wherefore  toss  me 
this 

Like  a dry  bone  cast  to  some  hungry  hound? 
Let  be  thy  fair  Queen’s  fantasy.  Strength 
of  heart 

And  rnight  of  limb,  but  mainly  use  and  skill. 
Are  winners  in  this  pastime  of  our  King. 

My  hand  — belike  the  lance  hath  dript  upon 
it  — 

No  blood  of  mine,  I trow ; but  O chief 
knight. 

Right  arm  of  Arthur  in  the  battlefield. 

Great  brother,  thou  nor  I have  made  the 
world ; 

Be  happy  in  thy  fair  Queen  as  I in  mine.” 

And  Tristram  round  the  gallery  made  his 
horse 

Caracole;  then  bow’d  his  homage,  bluntly 
saying, 

“Fair  damsels,  each  to  him  who  worships 
each 

Sole  Queen  of  Beauty  and  of  love,  behold 
This  day  my  Queen  of  Beauty  is  not  here.” 
Then  most  of  these  were  mute,  some  an- 
ger’d, one 

Murmuring  “All  courtesy  is  dead,”  and 
one, 

“ The  glory  of  our  Round  Table  is  no  more.” 


Then  fell  thick  rain,  plume  droopt  and 
mantle  clung. 

And  pettish  cries  awoke,  and  the  wan  day 

Went  glooming  down  in  wet  and  weariness  : 

But  under  her  black  brows  a swarthy  dame 

Laught  shrilly,  crying  “Praise  the  patient 
saints. 

Our  one  white  day  of  Innocence  hath  past, 

Tho’  somewhat  draggled  at  the  skirt.  So  be 
it. 

The  snowdrop  onl}^  flow’ring  thro’  the  year, 

Would  make  the  world  as  blank  as  winter- 
tide. 

Come  — let  us  comfort  their  sad  eyes,  our 
Queen’s 

And  Lancelot’s,  at  this  night’s  solemnity 

With  all  the  kindlier  colors  of  the  field.” 


So  dame  and  damsel  glitter’d  at  the  feast 
Variously  gay : for  he  that  tells  the  tale 
Liken’d  them,  saying  “as  when  an  hour  of 
cold 

Falls  on  the  mountain  in  midsummer  snows, 
And  all  the  purple  slopes  of  mountain  flowers 
Pass  under  white,  till  the  warm  hour  returns 
With  veer  of  wind,  and  all  are  flowers 
again  ” ; 

So  dame  and  damsel  cast  the  simple  white. 
And  glowing  in  all  colors,  the  live  grass. 
Rose-campion,  bluebell,  kingcup,  poppy, 
glanced 

About  the  revels,  and  with  mirth  so  loud 
Beyond  all  use,  that,  half-amazed,  the  Queen, 
And  wroth  at  Tristram  and  the  lawless 
jousts. 

Brake  up  their  sports,  then  slowly  to  her 
bower 

Parted,  and  in  her  bosom  pain  was  lord. 

And  little  Dagonet  on  the  morrow  morn. 
High  over  all  the  yellowing  Autumn-tide, 
Danced  like  a wither’d  leaf  before  the  hall. 
Then  'I’ristram  saying,  “ Why  skip  ye  so. 
Sir  Fool?” 

Wheel’d  round  on  either  heel,  Dagonet  re- 
^ plied, 

“ Belike  for  lack  of  wiser  company ; 

Or  being  fool,  and  seeing  too  much  wit 
Makes  the  world  rotten,  why,  belike  I skip 
To  know  myself  the  wisest  knight  of  all.” 
“Ay,  fool,”  said  Tristram,  “but ’t  is  eating 
dry 

To  dance  without  a catch,  a roundelay 
To  dance  to.”  Then  he  twangled  on  his 
harp. 

And  while  he  twangled  little  Dagonet  stood. 
Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay’d  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a brook ; 
But  when  the  twangling  ended,  skipt- again  ; 
Then  'being  ask’d,  “Why  skipt  ye  not.  Sir 
Fool?” 

Made  answer,  “ I had  liefer  twenty  years 
Skip  to  the  broken  music  of  my  brains 
Than  any  broken  music  ye  can  make.” 

Then  Tristram,  waiting  for  the  quip  to  come, 
“ Good  now,  what  music  have  I broken, 
fool?”  V 


324 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


And  little  Dagonet,  skipping,  “ Arthur,  the 
king’s  ; 

For  when  thou  playest  that  air  with  Queen 
Isolt, 

Thou  makest  broken  music  with  thy  bride. 
Her  daintier  namesake  down  in  Brittany  — 
And  so  thou  breakest  Arthur’s  music  too.” 

“ Save  for  that  broken  music  in  thy  brains. 
Sir  Fool,”  said  Tristram,  “I  would  break 
thy  head. 

Fool,  I came  late,  the  heathen  wars  were 
o’er, 

The  life  had  flown,  we  sware  but  by  the 
shell  — 

I am  but  a fool  to  reason  with  a fool. 

Come,  thou  art  crabb’d  and  sour : but  lean 
me  down,  ♦ 

Sir  Dagonet,  one  of  thy  long  asses’  ears, 

And  hearken  if  my  music  be  not  true. 

“‘Free  love  — free  field  — we  love  but 
while  we  may  : 

The  woods  are  hush’d,  their  music  is  no 
more  : 

The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past  away*. 
New  leaf,  new  life — the  days  of  frost  are 
o’er : 

New  life,  new  love  to  suit  the  newer  day ; 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went  be- 
fore : 

Free  love,  — free  field  — we  love  but  while 
we  may..’ 

“Ye  might  have  moved  slow-measure  to 
my  tune, 

Not  stood  stockstill.  I made  it  in  the  woods. 
And  found  it  ring  as  true  as  tested  gold.” 

But  Dagoaet  with  one  foot  poised  in  his 
hand, 

“ Friend,  did  ye  mark  that  fountain  yester- 
day 

Made  to  run  wine?  — but  this  had  run  itself 
All  out  like  a long  life  to  a sour  end  — 

And  them  that  round  it  sat  with  golden  cups 
To  hand  the  wine  to  whomsoever  came  — 
The  twelve  small  damosels  white  as  Inno- 
cence, 

In  honor  of  poor  Innocence  the  babe. 

Who  left  the  gems  which  Innocence  the 
Queen 

Lent  to  the  King,  and  Innocence  the  King 
Gave  for  a prize  — and  one  of  those  white 
slips 

Handed  her  cup  and  piped,  the  pretty  one, 
‘Drink,  drink.  Sir  Fool,’  and  thereupon  I 
drank. 

Spat  — pish  — the  cup  was  gold,  the  draught 
was  mud.” 

And  Tristram,  “ Was  it  muddier  than 
thy  gibes? 

Is  all  the  laughter  gone  dead  out  of  thee?  — 
Not  marking  how  the  knighthood  mock  thee, 
fool  — 

‘Fear  God:  honor  the  king — his  one  true 
knight  — 

Sole  follower  of  the  vows  ’ — for  here  be 
they 


Who  knew  thee  swine  enow  before  I came. 
Smuttier  than  blasted  grain  : but  when  the 
King 

Had  made  thee  fool,  thy  vanity  so  shot  up 
It  frighted  all  free  fool  from  out  thy  heart ; 
Which  left  thee  less  than  fool,  and  less  than 
swine, 

A naked  aught  — yet  swine  I hold  thee  still, 
For  I have  flung  thee  pearls,  and  find  thee 
swine.” 

And  little  Dagonet  mincing  with  his  feet, 

“ Knight,  an  ye  fling  those  rubies  round  my 
neck 

In  lieu  of  hers,  I ’ll  hold  thou  hast  some 
touch 

Of  music,  since  I care  not  for  thy  pearls. 
Swine  ? I have  wallow’d,  I have  wash’d  — 
the  world 

Is  flesh  and  shadow — I have  had  my  day. 
The  dirty  nurse.  Experience,  in  her  kind 
Hath  foul’d  me  — an  I wallow’d,  then  I 
wash’d  — 

I have  had  my  day  and  my  philosophies  — 
And  thank  the  Lord  I am  King  Arthur’s 

^ fool. 

Swine,  say  ye?  swine,  goats,  asses,  rams  and 
geese 

Troop’d  round  a Paynim  harper  once,  who 
thrumm’d 

On  such  a wire  as  musically  as  thou 
Some  such  fine  song  — but  never  a king’s 
fool.” 

And  Tristram,  “ Then  were  swine,  goats, 
asses,  geese 

The  wiser  fools,  seeing  thy  Paynim  bard 

Had  such  a mastery  of  his  mystery 

That  he  could  harp  his  wife  up  out  of  Hell.” 

Then  Dagonet,  turning  on  the  ball  of  his 
foot, 

“And  whither  harp’st  thou  thine?  down! 
and  thyself 

Down ! and  two  more : a helpful  harper 
thou. 

That  harpest  downward  I Dost  thou  know 
the  star 

We  call  the  harp  of  Arthur  up  in  heaven  ? ” 

And  Tristram,  “Ay,  Sir  Fool,  for  when 
our  King 

Was  victor  wellnigh  day  by  day,  the  knights. 
Glorying  in  each  new  glory,  set  his  name 
High  on  all  hills,  and  in  the  signs  of  heaven.” 

And  Dagonet  answer’d,  “ Ay,  and  when 
the  land 

Was  freed,  and  the  Queen  false,  ye  set  your- 
self 

To  babble  about  him,  all  to  show  your  wit  — 
And  whether  he  were  king  by  courtesy. 

Or  king  by  right  — and  so  went  harping 
down 

The  black  king’s  highway,  got  so  far,  and 
grew 

So  witty,  that  ye  play’d  at  ducks  and  drakes 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


With  Arthur’s  vows  on  the  great  lake  of 
fire. 

Tuwhoo  ! do  ye  see  it?  do  ye  see  the  star?” 

“Nay,  fool,”  said  Tristram,  “not  in  open 
day.” 

And  Dagonet,  “ Nay,  nor  will ; I see  it  and 
hear. 

It  makes  a silent  music  up  in  heaven. 

And  I,  and  Arthur  and  the  angels  hear. 

And  then  we  skip.”  “Lo,  fool,”  he  said, 
“ ye  talk 

Fool’s  treason:  is  the  king  thy  brother 
fool?” 

Then  little  Dagonet  clapt  his  hands  and 
shrill’d, 

“Ay,  ay,  my  brother  fool,  the  king  of  fools  ! 
Conceits  himself  as  God  that  he  can  make 
Figs  out  of  thistles,  silk  from  bristles,  milk 
From  burning  spurge,  honey  from  hornet- 
combs, 

And  men  from  beasts.  — Long  live  the  king 
of  fools  ! ” 

And  down  the  city  Dagonet  danced  away. 
But  thro’  the  slowly-mellowing  avenues 
And  solitary  passes  of  the  wood 
Rode  Tristram  toward  Lyonesse  and  the 
west. 

Before  him  fled  the  face  of  Queen  Isolt 
With  rnby-circled  neck,  but  evermore 
Past,  as  a rustle  or  twitter  in  the  wood 
Made  dull  his  inner,  keen  his  outer  eye 
For  all  that  walk’d,  or  crept,  or  perched,  or 
flew. 

Anon  the  face,  as,  when  a gust  hath 
blown, 

Unruffling  waters  re-collect  the  shape 
Of  one  that  in  them  sees  himself,  return’d  ; 
But  at  the  slot  or  fewmets  of  a deer, 

Or  ev’n  a fall’n  feather,  vanish’d  again. 

So  on  for  all  that  day  from  lawn  to  lawn 
Thro’  many  a league-long  bower  he  rode.  At 
length 

A lodge  of  intertwisted  beechen-boughs 
Furze-cram m’d,  andbracken-rooft,  the  which 
himself 

Built  for  a summer  day  with  Queen  Isolt 
Against  a shower,  dark  in  the  golden  grove 
Appearing,  sent  his  fancy  back  to  where 
She  lived  a moon  in  that  low  lodge  with 
him  : 

Till  Mark  her  lord  had  past,  the  Cornish 
king, 

With  six  or  seven,  when  Tristram  was  away, 
And  snatch’d  her  thence  ; yet  dreading  worse* 
than  shame 

Her  warrior  Tristram,  spake  not  any  word. 
But  bojde  his  hour,  devising  wretchedness. 

And  now  that  desert  lodge  to  Tristram 
lookt 

So  sweet,  that,  halting,  in  he  past,  and  sank 
Down  on  a drift  of  foliage  random-blown  ; 
But  could  not  rest  for  musing  how  to  smooth 
And  sleek  his  marriage  over  to  the  Queen. 
Perchance  in  lone  Tintagil  far  from  all 


The  tonguesters  of  the  court  she  had  not 
heard. 

But  then  what  folly  had  sent  him  overseas 
After  she  left  him  lonely  here?  a name? 

Was  it  the  name  of  one  in  Brittany, 

Isolt,  the  daughter  of  the  King?  “Isolt 
Of  the  white  hands  ” they  call’d  her;  the 
sweet  name 

Allured  him  first,  and  then  the  maid  herself. 
Who  served  him  well  with  those  white  hands 
of  hers. 

And  loved  him  well,  until  himself  had  thought 
He  loved  her  also,  wedded  easily. 

But  left  her  all  as  psily,  and  return’d. 

The  black-blue  Irish  hair  and  Irish  eyes 
Had  drawn  him  home  — what  marvel?  then 
he  laid 

His  brows  upon  the  drifted  leaf  and  dream’d. 

He  seem’d  to  pace  the  strand  of  Brittany 
Between  Isolt  of  Britain  and  his  bride. 

And  show’d  them  both  the  ruby-chain,  and 
both 

Began  to  struggle  for  it,  till  his  Queen 
Graspt  it  so  hard,  that  all  her  hand  was  red. 
Then  cried  the  Breton,  “ Look,  her  hand  is 
red  ! 

These  be  no  rubies,  this  is  frozen  blood. 

And  melts  within  her  hand  — her  hand  is 
hot 

With  ill  desires,  but  this  I gave  thee,  look, 

Is  all  as  cool  and  white  as  any  flower.” 
Follow'’d  a rush  of  eagle’s  wings,  and  then 
A whimpering  of  the  spirit  of  the  child. 
Because  the  twain  had  spoil’d  her  carcanet. 

He  dream’d  ; but  Arthur  with  a hundred 
spears 

Rode  far,  till  o’er  the  illimitable  reed. 

And  many  a glancing  plash  and  sallowy  isle. 
The  wide-wing’d  sunset  of  the  misty  marsh 
Glared  on  a huge  machicolated  tower 
That  stood  with  open  doors,  whereout  was 
roll’d 

A roar  of  riot,  as  from  men  secure 
Amid  their  marshes,  ruffians  at  their  ease 
Among  their  harlot-brides,  an  evil  song. 

“ Lo  there,”  said  one  of  Arthur’s  youth,  for 
there, 

High  on  a grim  dead  tree  before  the  tower, 
A goodly  brother  of  The  Table  Roond 
Swung  by  the  neck  : and  on  the  boughs  a 
shield 

Showing  a shower  of  blood  in  a field  noir, 
And  thevebeside  a horn,  inflamed  the  knights 
At  that  dishonor  done  the  gilded  spur. 

Till  each  would  clash  the  shield,  and  blow 
the  horn. 

But  Arthur  waved  them  back  : alone  he  rode. 
Then  at  the  dry  harsh  roar  of  the  great  horn, 
That  sent  the  face  of  all  the  marsh  aloft 
An  ever  upw-ard-rushing  storm  and  cloud 
Of  shriek  and  plume,  the  Red  Knight  heard, 
and  all. 

Even  to  tipmost  lance  and  topmost  helm. 

In  blood-red  armor  sallying,  howl’d  to  the 
King, 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


326 

“The  teeth  of  Hell  flay  bare  and  gnash 
thee  flat ! — 

Lo  ! art  thou  not  that  eunuch-hearted  King 
Who  fain  had  dipt  free  manhood  from  the 
world  — 

The  woman-worshipper  ?•  Yea,  God’s  curse, 
and  I ! 

Slain  was  the  brother  of  my  paramour 
By  a knight  of  thine,  and  I that  heard  her 
whine 

And  snivel,  being  eunuch-hearted  too, 

Sware  by  the  scorpion-worm  that  twists  in 
hell, 

And  stings  itself  to  everlasting  death, 

To  hang  whatever  knight  of  thine  I fought 
And  tumbled.  Art  thou  King? — Look  to 
thy  life ! ” 

He  ended : Arthur  knew  the  voice ; the 
face 

Wellnigh  was  helmet-hidden,  and  the  name 
Went  wandering  somewhere  darkling  in  his 
mind. 

And  Arthur  deign’d  not  use  of  word  or 
sword,  * 

But  let  the  drunkard,  as  he  stretch’d  from 
horse 

To  strike  . him,  overbalancing  his  bulk, 

Down  from  the  causeway  heavily  to  the 
swamp 

Fall,  as  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching  wave 
Heard  in  dead  night  along  that  table-shore 
Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters  break 
Whitening  for  half  a league,  and  thin  them- 
selves 

Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and 
cloud, 

From  less  and  less  to  nothing;  thus  he  fell 
Head-heavy,  while  the  knights,  who  watch’d 
him,  roar’d 

And  shouted  and  leapt  down  upon  the  fall’n  ; 
There  trampled  out  his  face  from  being 
known. 

And  sank  his  head  in  mire,  and  slimed  them- 
selves : 

Nor  heard  the  King  for  their  own  cries,  but 
sprang 

Thro’  open  doors,  and  swording  right  and 
left 

Men,  women,  on  their  sodden  faces,  hurl’d 
The  tables  over  and  the  wines,  and  slew 
Till  all  the  rafters  rang  with  woman-yells. 
And  all  the  pavement  stream’d  with  mas- 
sacre ; 

Then,  yell  with  yell  echoing,  they  fired  the 
tower. 

Which  half  that  autumn  night,  like  the  live 
North, 

Red-pulsing  up  thro’  Alioth  and  Alcor, 

Made  all  ab^ove  it,  and  a hundred  meres 
About  it,  as  the  water  Moab  saw 
Come  round  by  the  East,  and  out  beyond 
them  flush’d 

The  long  low  dune,  and  lazy-plunging  sea. 

So  all  the  ways  were  safe  from  shore  to 
shore. 

But  in  the  heart  of  Arthur  pain  was  lord. 


Then  out  of  Tristram  waking  the  red 
dream 

Fled  with  a shout,  and  that  low  lodge  re- 
turn’d. 

Mid-forest,  and  the  wind  among  the  boughs. 
He  whistled  his  good  warhorse  left  to  graze 
Among  the  forest  greens,  vaulted  upon  him. 
And  rode  beneath  an  ever- showering  leaf. 
Till  one  lone  woman,  weeping  near  a cross. 
Stay’d  him,  “Why  weep  ye?”  “Lord,” 
she  said,  “my  man 

Hath  left  me  or  is  dead  ” ; whereon  he 
thought  — 

“What  an  she  hate  me  now?  I would  not 
this. 

What  an  she  love  me  still?  I w’ould  not 
that. 

I know  not  what  I would”  — but  said  to 
her,  — 

“ Yet  weep  not  thou,  lest,  if  thy  mate  return. 
He  find  thy  favor  changed  and  love  thee 
not”  — 

Then  pressing  day  by  day  thro’  Lyonesse 
Last  in  a roky  hollow,  belling,  heard 
The  hounds  of  Mark,  and  felt  the  goodly 
hounds 

Yelp  at  his  heart,  but,  turning,  past  and 
gain’d 

Tintagil,  half  in  sea,  and  high  on  land, 

A crown  of  towers. 

Down  in  a casement  sat, 
A low  sea-sunset  glorying  round  her  hair 
And  glossy-throated  grace,  Isolt  the  Queen. 
And  when  she  heard  the  feet  of  Tristram 
grind 

The  spiring  stone  that  scaled  about  her 
tower. 

Flush’d,  started,  met  him  at  the  doors,  and 
there 

Belted  his  body  wdth  her  white  embrace, 
Crying  aloud,  “Not  Mark — not  Mark,  my 
soul ! 

The  footstep  flutter’d  me  at  first : not  he  : 
Catlike  thro’  his  own  castle  steals  my  Mark, 
But  warrior-wise  thou  stridest  through  his 
halls 

Who  hates  thee,  as  I him  — ev’n  to  the 
death. 

My  soul,  I felt  my  hatred  for  my  Mark 
Quicken  within  me,  and  knew  that  thou  wert 
nigh.” 

To  whom  Sir  Tristram  smiling,  “ I am  here. 
Let  be  thy  Mark,  seeing  he  is  not  thine.” 

And  drawing  somew’hat  backward  she  re- 
plied, 

“Can  he  be  wrong’d  who  is  not  ev’n  his 
own, 

But  save  for  dread  of  thee  had  beaten  me. 
Scratch’d,  bitten,  blinded,  marr’d  me  some- 
how — Mark? 

What  rights  are  his  that  dare  not  strike  for 
them  ? 

Not  lift  a hand  — not,  tho*  he  found  me 
thus  ! 

But  hearken,  have  ye  met  him?  hence  he 
went 


THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT, 


To-day  for  three  days’  hunting — as  he 
said  — 

And  so  returns  belike  within  an  hour. 
Mark’s  way,  my  soul!  — but  eat  not  thou 
with  him, 

Because  he  hates  thee  even  more  than  fears  ; 
Nor  drink  : and  when  thou  passest  any  wood 
Close  visor,  lest  an  arrow  from  the  bush 
Should  leave  me  all  alone  with  Mark  and 
hell. 

My  God,  the  measure  of  my  hate  for  Mark 
Is  as  the  measure  of  my  love  for  thee,” 

So,  pluck’d  one  way  by  hate  and  one  by 
love. 

Drain’d  of  her  force,  again  she  sat,  and 
spake 

To  Tristram,  as  he  knelt  before  her,  saying, 
“ O hunter,  and  O blower  of  the  horn, 
Harper,  and  thou  hast  been  a rover  too, 

For,  ere  I mated  with  my  shambling  king. 
Ye  twain  had  fallen  out  about  the  bride 
Of  one  — his  name  is  out  of  me  — the  prize, 
If  prize  she  were  — (what  marvel  — she  could 
see)  — 

Thine,  friend;  and  ever  since  my  craven 
seeks 

To  wreck  thee  villanously : but,  O Sir 
Knight, 

What  dame  or  damsel  have  ye  kneeled  to 
last?” 


And  Tristram,  “ Last  to  my  Queen  Para- 
mount, 

Here  now  to  my  Queen  Paramount  of  love, 
A.nd  lovejjness,  ay,  lovelier  than  when  first 
Her  light  feet  fell  on  our  rough  Lyonesse, 
Sailing  from  Ireland.” 

Softly  laugh’d  Isolt, 
“ Flatter  me  not,  for  hath  not  our  great 
Queen 

My  dole  of  beauty  trebled  ? ” and  he  said, 

“ Her  beauty  is  her  beauty,  and  thine  thine. 
And  thine  is  more  to  me — soft,  gracious, 
kind  — 

Save  when  thy  Mark  is  kindled  on  thy  lips 
Most  gracious  ; but  she,  haughty,  ev’n  to 
him, 

Lancelot ; for  I have  seen  him  wan  enow 
To  make  one  doubt  if  ever  the  great  Queen 
Have  yielded  him  her  love.” 

To  whom  Isolt, 
“ Ah  then,  false  hunter  and  false  harper,  thou 
Who  breakest  thro’  the  scruple  of  my  bond. 
Calling  me  thy  white  hind,  and  saying  to  me 
That  Guinevere  had  sinned  against  the 
highest. 

And  I — misyoked  with  such  a want  of 
man  — 

That  I could  hardly  sin  against  the  lowest.” 

He  answer’d,  **  O my  soul,  be  comforted  1 
If  this  be  sweet,  to  sin  in  leading-strings. 

If  here  be  comfort,  and  if  ours  be  sin. 


Crown’d  warrant  had  we  for  the  crowning 
sin 

That  made  us  happy  ; but  how  ye  greet  me 
— fear 

And  fault  and  doubt  — no  word  of  that  fond 
tale  — 

Thy  deep  heart-yearnings,  thy  sweet  memo- 
ries 

Of  Tristram  in  that  year  he  was  avC-ay.” 

And,  saddening  on  the  sudden,  spake 
Isolt, 

“ I had  forgotten  all  in  my  strong  joy 
To  see  thee  — yearnings  ? — ay  I for,  hour 
by  hour, 

Here  in  the  never-ended  afternoon, 

O sweeter  than  all  memories  of  thee. 

Deeper  than  any  yearnings  after  thee 
Seem’d  those  far-rolling,  westward-smiling 
seas. 

Watched  from  this  tower.  Isolt  of  Britain 
dash’d 

Before  Isolt  of  Brittany  on  the  strand. 

Would  that  have  chill’d  her  bride-kiss?  ' 
Wedded  her  ? 

Fought  in  her  father’s  battles?  wounded 
there  ? 

The  King  was  all  fulfill’d  with  gratefulness, 
And  she,  my  namesake  of  the  hands,  that 
heal’d 

Thy  hurt  and  heart  with  unguent  and 
caress  — 

Well  — can  I wish  her  any  huger  wrong 
Than  having  known  thee  ? her  too  hast  thou 
left 

To  pine  and  waste  in  those  sweet  memories? 

O were  I not  my  Mark’s,  by  whom  all  men 
Are  noble,  I should  hate  thee  more  than 
love.” 

And  Tristram,  fondling  her  light  hands, 
replied, 

“ Grace,  Queen,  for  being  loved : she  loved 
me  well. 

Did  I love  her?  the  name  at  least  I loved. 
Isolt  ? — I fought  his  battles,  for  Isolt ! 

The  night  was  dark ; the  true  star  set. 
Isolt ! 

The  name  was  ruler  of  the  dark Isolt  ? 

Care  not  for  her ! patient,  and  prayerful, 
meek. 

Pale-blooded,  she  will  yield  herself  to  God.” 

And  Isolt answ^er’d,  “ Yea,  and  why  not  I? 
Mine  is  the  larger  need,  who  am  not  meek, 
Pale-blooded,  prayerful.  Let  me  tell  thee 
now. 

Here  one  black,  mute  midsummer  night  I 
sat 

Lonely,  but  musing  on  thee,  wondering 
where, 

Murmuring  a light  song  I had  heard  thee 
sing, 

And  once  or  twice  I spake  thy  name  aloud. 
Then  flash’d  a levin-brand  ; and  near  me 
stood, 

In  fuming  sulphur  blue  and  green,  a fiend  — 
Mark’s  way  to  steal  behind  one  in  the  dark  — 


/ 


328  THE  LAST  TOURNAMENT. 


For  there  was  Mark  ; * He  has  wedded  her,’ 
he  said, 

Not  said,  but  hiss’d  it : then  this  crown  of 
towers 

So  shook  to  such  a roar  of  all  the  sky, 

I'hat  here  in  utter  dark  I swoon’d  away. 

And  woke  again  in  utter  dark,  and  cried, 

‘ I will  flee  hence  and  give  myself  to  God  ’ — 
And  thou  wert  lying  in  thy  new  leman’s 
arms.” 

Then  Tristram,  ever  dallying  with  her 
hand, 

“May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when  old 
and  gray, 

And  past  desire  ! ” a saying  that  anger’d 
her. 

“ ‘ May  God  be  with  thee,  sweet,  when  thou 
art  old. 

And  sweet  no  more  to  me  ! ’ I need  Him 
now. 

For  when  had  Lancelot  utter’d  aught  so  gross 
Ev’n  to  the  swineherd’s  malkin  in  the  mast  ? 
The  greater  man,  the  greater  courtesy. 

But  thou,  thro’  ever  harrying  thy  wild 
beasts  — 

Save  that  to  touch  a harp,  tilt  with  a lance 
Becomes  thee  well  — art  grown  wild  beast 
thyself. 

How  darest  thou,  if  lover,  push  me  even 
In  fancy  from  thy  side,  and  set  me  far 
In  the  gray  distance,  half  a life  away. 

Her  to  be  loved  no' more?  Unsay  it,  un- 
swear ! 

Flatter  me  rather,  seeing  me^so  weak, 
Broken  with  Mark  and  hate  and  solitude. 
Thy  marriage  and  mine  own,  that  I should 
suck 

Lies  like  sweet  wines  : lie  to  me  : I believe. 
Will  ye  not  lie  ? not  swear,  as  there  ye 
kneel, 

And  solemnly  as  w'hen  ye  sware  to  him. 

The  man  of  men,  our  King  — My  God,  the 
power 

Was  once  in  vows  when  men  believed  the 
King  ! 

They  lied  not  then,  who  sware,  and  thro’ 
their  vows 

The  King  prevailing  made  his  realm  : — I 
say, 

Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  love  me  ev’n  when 
old. 

Gray-haired,  and  past  desire,  and  in  de- 
spair.” 

Then  Tristram,  pacing  moodily  up  and 
down, 

“Vows!  did  ye  keep  the  vow  ye  made  to 
Mark 

More  than  I mine?  Lied,  say  ye?  Nay, 
but  learnt. 

The  vow  that  binds  too  strictly  snaps  it- 
self— 

My  knighthood  taught  me  this — ay,  being 
snapt  — 

We  run  more  counter  to  the  soul  thereof 
Than  had  we  never  sworn.  I swear  no 
more. 


I swore  to  the  great  King,  and  am  forsworn. 
For  once  — ev’n  to  the  height — I honor’d 
him. 

‘ Man,  is  he  man  at  all  ? ’ methought,  when 
first 

I rode  from  our  rough  Lyonesse,  and  be- 
held 

That  victor  of  the  Pagan  throned  in  hall  — 
His  hair,  a sun  that  ray’d  from  off  a brow 
Like  hillsnow  high  in  heaven,  the  steel-blue 
eyes. 

The  golden  beard  that  clothed  his  lips  with 
light  — 

Moreover,  that  weird  legend  of  his  birth. 
With  Merlin’s  mystic  babble  about  his  end, 
Amazed  me  ; then,  his  foot  was  on  a stool 
Shaped  as  a dragon  ; he  seem’d  to  me  no 
man. 

But  Michael  trampling  Satan  ; so  I sware. 
Being  amazed  : but  thisw'ent  by — the  vows  I 
O ay  — the  wholesome  madness  of  an  hour  — 
They  served  their  use,  their  time  ; for  every 
knight 

Believed  himself  a greater  than  himself. 

And  every  follower  eyed  him  as  a God  ; 

Till  he,  being  lifted  up  beyond  himself. 

Did  mightier  deeds  than  elsewise  he  had 
done. 

And  so  the  realm  was  made  ; but  then  their 
vows  — 

First  mainly  thro’  that  sullying  of  our 
Queen  — 

Began  to  gall  the  \nighthood,  ask.ing 
whence 

Had  Arthur  right  to  bind  them  to  himself? 
Dropt  down  from  heaven  ? w-ash’d  up  from 
out  the  deep? 

They  fail’d  to  trace  him  thro’  the  flesh  and 
blood 

Of  our  old  Kings  : whence  then  ? a doubtful 
lord 

To  bind  them  by  inviolable  vows. 

Which  flesh  and  blood  perforce  would  vio- 
late  : 

For  feel  this  arm  of  mine  — the  tide  within 
Red  with  free  chase  and  heather-scented  air. 
Pulsing  full  man  ; can  Arthur  make  me  pure 
As  any  maiden  child  ? lock  up  my  tongue 
From  uttering  freely  what  I freely  hear? 
Bind  me  to  one?  The  great  world  laughs 
at  it. 

And  worldling  of  the  world  am  I,  and  know 
The  ptarmigan  that  w hitens  ere  his  hour 
Wooes  his  own  end  ; we  are  not  angels  here 
Nor  shall  be  : vows — I am  woodman  of  the 
woods. 

And  hear  the  garnet-headed  yaffingale 
Mock  them  ; my  soul,  we  love  but  wliile  we 
may  ; 

And  therefore  is  my  love  so  large  for  thee. 
Seeing  it  is  not  bounded  save  by  love.” 

Here  ending,  he  moved  toward  her,  and 
she  said, 

“ Good  : an  I turn’d  away  my  love  for  thee 
To  some  one  thrice  as  courteous  as  thy- 
self— 

For  courtesy  wins  woman  all  as  well 


TO  THE 

As  valor  may  — but  he  that  closes  both 
Is  perfect,  he  is  Lancelot  — taller  indeed, 
Rosier,  and  comelier,  thou — but  say  I loved 
This  knightliest  of  all  knights,  and  cast  thee 
back 

Thine  own  small  saw  ‘ We  love  but  while  we 
may,* 

Well  then,  what  answer?  ” 

He  that  while  she  spake, 
Mindful  of  what  he  brought  to  adorn  her 
with, 

The  jewels,  had  let  one  finger  lightly  touch 
The  warm  white  apple  of  her  throat,  replied, 
“ Press  this  a little  closer,  sweet,  until  — 
Come,  I am  hunger’d  and  half-anger’d  — 
meat. 

Wine,  wine  — and  I will  love  thee  to  the 
death. 

And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to  come.” 

So  then,  when  both  were  brought  to  full 
accord, 

She  rose,  and  set  before  him  all  he  will’d  ; 
And  after  these  had  comforted  the  blood 
With  meats  and  wines,  and  satiated  their 
hearts  — 

Now  talking  of  their  woodland  paradise. 

The  deer,  the  dews,  the  fern,  the  founts,  the 
lawns ; 

Now  mocking  at  the  much  ungainliness, 

And  craven  shifts,  and  long  crane  legs  of 
Mark  — 

Then  Tristram  laughing  caught  the  harp, 
and  sang  : 

“ Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that  bend  the 
brier ! 

A star  in  heaven,  a star  within  the  mere  ! 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — a star  was  my  desire, 

And  one  was  far  apart,  and  one  was  near  : 


QUEEN.  339 

Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that  bow  the 
grass  ! 

And  one  was  water  and  one  star  was  fire. 
And  one  will  ever  shine  and  one  will  pass. 
Ay,  ay,  O ay  — the  winds  that  move  the 
mere.” 

Then  in  the  light’s  last  glimmer  Tristram 
show’d 

And  swung  the  ruby  carcanet.  She  cried, 

“ The  collar  of  some  order,  which  our  King 
Hath  newly  founded,  all  for  thee,  my  soul. 
For  thee,  to  yield  thee  grace  beyond  thy 
peers.” 

“ Not  so,  my  Queen,”  he  said,  “ but  the 
red  fruit 

Grown  on  a magic  oak-tree  in  mid-heaven. 
And  won  by  Tristram  as  a tourney-prize. 

And  hither  brought  by  Tristram  for  his  last 
Love-offering  and  peace-offering  unto  thee.” 

He  rose,  he  turn’d,  and  flinging  round  her 
neck, 

Claspt  it ; but  while  he  bow’d  himself  to  lay 
Warm  kisses  in  the  hollow  of  her  throat, 

Out  of  the  dark,  just  as  the  lips  had  touch’d. 
Behind  him  rose  a shadow  and  a shriek — ■ 

“ Mark’s  way,”  said  Mark,  and  clove  him 
thro’  the  brain. 

That  night  came  Arthur  home,  and  while 
he  climb’d. 

All  in  a death-dumb  autumn-dripping  gloom. 
The  stairway  to  the  hall,  and  look’d  and  saw 
The  great  Queen’s  bower  was  dark,  — about 
his  feet 

A voice  clung  sobbing  till  he  question’d  it, 

“ What  art  thou  ? ” and  the  voice  about  his 
feet 

Sent  up  an  answer,  sobbing,  “ I am  thy  fool, 
And  I shall  never  make  thee  smile  again.” 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

EPILOGUE  TO  THE  IDYLS. 


O LOYAL  to  the  royal  in  thyself, 

And  loyal  to  thy  land,  as  this  to  thee  — 

Bear  witness,  that  rememberable  day. 

When,  piale  as  yet,  and  fever-worn,  the 
Prince 

Who  scarce  had  pluck’d  his  flickering  life 
again 

From  half-way  down  the  shadow  of  the 
grave. 

Past  with  thee  thro’  thy  people  and  their 
love. 

And  London  roll’d  one  tide  of  joy  thro’  all 

Her  trebled  millions,  and  loud  leagues  of 
man 

And  welcome  ! v/itness,  too,  the  silent  cry. 


The  prayer  of  many  a race  and  creed,  and 
clime  — 

Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under  sea 
From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy  realm. 
And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately 
heard 

A strain  to  shame  us  “ keep  you  to  your- 
selves ; 

So  loyal  is  too  costly  ! friends  — your  love 
Is  but  a burden  ; loose  the  bond,  and  go.” 

Is  this  the  tone  of  empire  ? here  the  faith 
That  made  us  rulers  ? this,  indeed,  her  voice 
And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hougou- 
mont 

Left  mightiest  of  all  peoples  under  heaven  ? 


/ 


330  A WELCOME. 


What  shock  has  fool’d  her  since,  that  she 
should  speak 

So  feebly  ? wealthier  — wealthier  — hour  by 
hour  ! 

The  voice  of  Britain,  or  a sinking  land. 

Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among  her 
seas  ? 

There  rang  her  voice,  when  the  full  city 
peal’d 

Thee  and  thy  Prince  ! The  loyal  to  their 
crown 

Are  loyal  to  their  own  far  sons,  who  love 
Our  ocean-empire  with  her  boundless  homes 
F or  ever-broadening  England,  and  her  Jjirone 
In  our  vast  Orient,  and  one  isle,  one  isle. 
That  knows  not  her  own  greatness : if  she 
knows 

And  dreads  it  we  are  fall’n. But  thou, 

my  Queen, 

Not  for  itself,  but  thro’  thy  living  love 
For  one  to  whom  I made  it  o’er  his  grave 
Sacred,  accept  this  old  imperfect  tale. 
New-old,  and  shadowing  Sense  at  war  with 
Soul 

Rather  than  that  gray  king,  whose  name,  a 
ghost. 

Streams  like  a cloud,  man-shaped,  from 
mountain  peak. 

And  cleaves  to  cairn  and  cromlech  still : or 
him 

Of  Geoffrey’s  book,  or  him  of  Malleor’s,  one 
Touch’d  by  the  adulterous  finger  of  a time 


That  hover’d  between  war  and  wantonness. 
And  crownings  and  dethronements : take 
withal 

Thy  poet’s  blessing,  and  his  trust  that 
Heaven 

Will  blow  the  tempest  in  the  distance  back 
From  thine  and  ours:  for  some  are  scared, 
who  mark, 

Or  wisely  or  unwisely,  signs  of  storm. 
Waverings  of  every  vane  with  every  wind. 
And  wordy  trucklings  to  the  transient  hour. 
And  fierce  or  careless  looseners  of  the  faith, 
And  Softness  breeding  scorn  of  simple  life. 
Or  Cowardice,  the  child  of  lust  for  gold. 

Or  Labor,  with  a groan  and  not  a voice. 

Or  Art,  with  poisonous  honey  stol’n  from 
France, 

And  that  which  knows,  but  careful  for  itself, 
And  that  which  knows  not,  ruling  that 
which  knows 

To  its  own  harm  : the  goal  of  this  great 
world 

Lies  beyond  sight : yet  — if  our  slow’ly-groVim 
And  crown’d  Republic’s  crowning  common- 
. sense. 

That  saved  her  many  times,  not  fail  — their 
fears 

Are  morning  shadows  huger  than  the  shapes 
That  cast  them,  not  those  gloomier  which 
forego 

The  darkness  of  that  battle  in  the  West, 
Where  all  of  high  and  holy  dies  away. 


A WELCOME 


TO  THE  DUKE  AND  DUCHESS 
OF  EDINBURGH. 


March,  1874. 


The  Son  of  him  with  whom  we  strove  for 
power  — 

Whose  will  is  lord  thro’  all  his  world- 
domain — 

Who  made  the  serf  a man,  and  burst  his 
chain  — 

Has  given  our  Prince  his  own  Imperial 
Flower, 

Alexandrovna. 

And  w^elcome,  Russian  flower,  a people’s 
pride, 

To  Britain,  when  her  flowers  begin  to  blow  ! 
From  love  to  love,  from  home  to  home  you 

go, 

From  mother  unto  mother,  stately  bride, 

Marie- Alexandrovna. 

II. 

The  golden  news  along  the  steppes  is  blown, 
And  at  thy  name  the  Tartar  tents  are 
stirred  ; 

Elburz  and  all  the  Caucasus  have  heard ; 


And  all  the  sultry  palms  of  India  known, 

Alexandrovna. 

The  voices  of  our  universal  sea, 

On  capes  of  Afric  as  on  cliffs  of  Kent, 

The  Maoris  and  that  Isle  of  Continent, 
And  loyal  pines  of  Canada  murmur  thee, 

M arie-Alexandrovna ! 

III. 

Fair  empires  branching,  both,  in  lusty  life  ! — 
Yet  Harold’s  England  ' fell  to  Norman 
swords ; 

Yet  thine  own  land  has  bow’d  to  Tartar 
hordes 

Since  English  Harold  gave  its  throne  a wife, 
Alexandrovna ! 

For  thrones  and  peoples  are  as  waifs  that 
swing, 

And  float  or  fall,  in  endless  ebb  and  flow  ; 
But  who  love  best  have  best  the  grace  to 
know 

That  Love  by  right  divine  is  deathless  king, 
M arie-Alexandrovna ! 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 


331 


IV. 

And  Love  has  led  thee  to  the  stranger 
land, 

Where  men  are  bold  and  strongly  say  their 
say ; — 

See,  empire  upon  empire  smiles  to-day, 

As  thou  with  thy  young  lover  hand  in  hand, 
Alexandrovna  ! 

So  now  thy  fuller  life  is  in  the  West, 

Whose  hand  at  home  was  gracious  to  thy 
poor  : 

Thy  name  was  blest  within  the  narrow 
door ; 

Here  also,  Marie,  shall  thy  name  be  blest, 
Marie- Alexandrovna  ! 


V. 

Shall  fears  and  jealous  hatreds  flame  again  ? 

Or  at  thy  coming,  Princess,  everywhere. 

The  blue  heaven  break,  and  some  diviner 
air 

Breathe  thro’  the  world  and  change  the 
hearts  of  men, 

Alexandrovna  ? 

But  hearts  that  change  not,  love  that  cannot 
cease, 

And  peace  be  yours,  the  peace  of  soul  in 
soul ! 

And  howsoever  this  wild  world  may  roll, 

Between  your  peoples  truth  and  manful  peace, 
Alfred  — Alexandrovna ! 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  AT  SWAINSTON. 

Nightingales  warbled  without, 

Within  was  weeping  for  thee  : 

Shadows  of  three  dead  men 
Walk’d  in  the  walks  with  me, 

Shadows  of  three  dead  men,  and  thou  wast 
one  of  the  three. 

Nightingales  sang  in  his  woods: 

The  Master  was  far  away  : 

Nightingales  warbled  and  sang 
Of  a passion  that  lasts  but  a day  : 

Still  in  the  house  in  his  coffin  the  Prince  of 
courtesy  lay. 

Two  dead  men  have  I known 
In  courtesy  like  to  thee: 

T\yo  dead  men  have  I loved 
With  a love  that  ever  will  be  : 

Three  dead  men  have  I loved,  and  thou  art 
last  of  the  three. 


THE  VOICE  AND  THE  PEAK. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  over  summit  and  lawn, 

The  lone  glow  and  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones  of  dawn  ! 

All  night  have  I heard  the  voice 
Rave  over  the  rocky  bar, 

But  thou  wert  silent  in  heaven, 

Above  thee  glided  the  star. 


Hast  thou  no  voice,  O Peak, 

That  standest  high  above  all  ? 

“ I am  the  voice  of  the  Peak, 

I roar  and  rave  for  I fall. 

“ A thousand  voices  go 
To  North,  South,  East,  and  West ; 

They  leave  the  heights  and  are  troubled. 
And  moan  and  sink  to  their  rest. 

“ The  fields  are  fair  beside  them. 

The  chestnut  towers  in  his  bloom  ; 

But  they  — they  feel  the  desire  of  the  deep  — 
Fall,  and  follow  their  doom. 

“ The  deep  has  power  on  the  height. 

And  the  height  has  power  on  the  deep  ; 
They  are  raised  for  ever  and  ever, 

And  sink  again  into  sleep.” 

Not  raised  for  ever  and  ever. 

But  w'hen  their  cycle  is  o’er. 

The  valley,  the  voice,  the  peak,  the  star, 
Pass,  and  are  found  no  more. 

The  Peak  is- high  and  flush’d 
At  hfs  highest  with  sunrise  fire  ; 

The  peak  is  high,  and  the  stars  are  high. 
And  the  thought  of  a man  is  higher. 

A voice  below  the  voice. 

And  a height  beyond  the  height  ! 

Our  hearing  is  not  hearing. 

And  our  seeing  is  not  sight. 

The  voice  and  the  Peak 
Far  into  heaven  withdrawn. 

The  lone  glow  and  the  long  roar 
Green-rushing  from  the  rosy  thrones  of  dawn  ! 


QUEEN  MARY 


♦ — 

DRAMATIS  PERSONAE-. 


Queen  Mary.  _ /•  \ 

Philip  {^King  of  Naples  and  S icily  y afterwards  K ing  oj  cipain). 

The  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Reginald  Pole  {Cardinal  and  Papal  Legate). 

Simon  Renard  {Spanish  Ambassador). 

Le  Sieur  de  Noailles  {French  Ambassador). 

Thomas  Cranmkr  {Archbishop  of  Canterbury). 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath  {Archbishop  of  York ; Lord  Chancellor  after  Gardiner). 
Edward  Courtenay  {Earl  of  Devon). 

Lord  William  Howard  {afterwards  Lord  Howard  and  Lord  High  Admiral). 
Lord  Williams  of  Thame. 

Lord  Paget. 

Lord  Petre. 

Stephen  Gardiner  {Bishop  of  Winchester  and  Lord  Chancellor), 

Edmund  Bonner  {Bishop  of  London). 

Thomas  Thirlby  {Bishop  of  Ely). 

i::  '^^PPZ^^UnsurrectionaryLeadersy 

Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 

Sir  Robert  Southwell. 

Sir  Henry  Bedingfield. 

Sir  William  Cecil. 

Sir  Thomas  White  {Lord  Mayor  of  London). 

The  Duke  of  Alva  ) ^ 

The  Count  de  Feria  j- 
Peter  Martyr. 

Father  Cole. 

Father  Bourne. 

Villa  Garcia. 

Soto. 

Captain  Brett  \ / a jj  . r ur 
Antonv  Knvvett  } of  WyM)- 

Peters  {Gentleman  of  Lord  Howard). 

Roger  {Servant  to  Noailles). 

William  {Servant  to  Wyatt). 

Steward  of  Household  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

Old  Nokes  and  Nokes. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter  {Mother  of  Courtenay).  ' 

Lady  Clarence  ) 

Lady  Magdalen  Dacres  > [Ladies  in  waiting  to  the  Queen). 

Alice  ) 

Maid  of  Honor  to  the  Princess  Elizabeth. 

T^b^  I Country  Wives). 

Lords  and  other  Attendants,  Members  of  the  Privy  Council,  Members  of  Parlia' 
ment,  two  Gentlemen,  Aldermen,  Citizens,  Peasants,  Ushers,  Messengers,  Guards, 
Pages^  &^c. 


QUEEN 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  — ALDGATE  RICHLY 
DECORATED. 

Crowd.  Marshalmen. 

Marshal-man.  Stand  back,  keep  a clear 
lane.  When  will  her  Majesty  pass,  sayst 
thou  ? why  now,  even  now  ; wherefore  draw 
back  your  heads  and  your  horns  before  I 
break  them,  and  make  what  noise  you  will 
with  your  tongues,  so  it  be  not  treason.  Long 
live  Queen  Mary,  the  lawful  and  legitimate 
daughter  of  Harry  the  Eighth.  Shout, 
knaves  ! 

Citizens.  Long  live  Queen  Mary  ! 

First  Citizen.  That ’s  a hard  word,  legiti- 
mate ; what  does  it  mean  ? 

Second  Citizen.  It  means  a bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  Nay,  it  means  true-born. 

First  Citizen.  Why,  did  n’t  the  Parlia- 
ment make  her  a bastard  ? 

Second  Citizen.  No ; it  was  the  Lady 
Elizabeth. 

Thii'd  Citizen.  That  was  after,  man  ; that 
was  after. 

First  Citizen.  Then  which  is  the  bas- 
tard? 

Second  Citizen.  Troth,  they  be  both  bas- 
tards by  Act  of  Parliament  and  Council. 

Third  Citizen.  Ay,  the  Parliament  can 
make  every  true-born  man  of  us  a bastard. 
Old  Nokes,  can’t  it  make  thee  a bastard? 
thou  shouldst  know,  for  thou  art  as  white  as 
three  Christmasses. 

Old  Nokes  {dreamily).  Who ’s  a-passing  ? 
King  Edward  or  King  Richard? 

Third  Citizen.  No,  old  Nokes. 

Old  Nokes.  It ’s  Harry  1 

Third  Citizen.  It ’s  Queen  Mary. 

Old  Nokes.  The  blessed  Mary ’s  a-pass- 
ing ! [Falls  on  his  knees. 

Nokes.  Let  father  alone,  my  masters ! he’s 
past  your  questioning. 

Third  Citizen.  Answer  thou  for  him, 
then  ! thou  art  no  such  cockerel  thyself,  for 
thou  was  born  i’  the  tail  end  of  old  Harry 
the  Seventh. 

Nokes.  Eh  ! that  was  afore  bastard-mak- 
ing began.  I was  bom  true  man  at  five  in 
the  forenoon  i’  the  tail  of  old  Harry,  and  so 
they  can’t  make  me  a bastard. 

Third  Citizen.  But  if  Parliament  can 
make  the  Queen  a bastard,  why,  it  follows 
all  the  more  that  they  can  make  thee  one, 
who  art  fray’d  i’  the  knees,  and  out  at  elbow, 
and  bald  o’  the  back,  and  bursten  at  the 
toes,  and  down  at  heels. 

Nokes. ^ I was  born  of  a true  man  and  a 
ring’d  wife,  and  I can’t  argue  upon  it ; but 
I and  my  old  woman  ’ud  burn  upon  it,  that 
would  we. 

Marshalman.  What  are  you  cackling  of 
bastardy  under  the  Queen’s  own  nose  ? I ’ll 
have  you  flogg’d  and  burnt  too,  by  the  Rood 
I will. 


MARY.  333 

First  Citizen.  He  swears  by  the  Rood. 
Whew  ! 

Second  Citizen.  Hark  1 the  trumpets. 

[The  Procession  passes.,  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  riding  side  by  side,  and 
disappears  under  the  gate. 

Citizens.  Long  live  Queen  Mary  ! down 
with  all  traitors  ! God  save  Her  Grace  ; and 
death  to  Northumberland  I [Exeunt. 

Manent  two  Gentlemen. 

First  Gentleman.  By  God’s  light  a noble 
creature,  right  royal. 

Second  Gentleman.  She  looks  comelier 
than  ordinary  to-day  ; but  to  my  mind  the 
Lady  Elizabeth  is  the  more  noble  and  royal. 

First  Gentleman.  1 mean  the  Lady  Eliza- 
beth. Did  you  hear  (I  have  a daughter  in 
her  service  who  reported  it)  that  she  met  the 
Queen  at  Wanstead  with  five  hundred  horse, 
and  the  Queen  (tho’  some  say  they  be  much 
divided)  took  her  hand,  call’d  her  sweet  sis- 
ter, and  kiss’d  not  her  alone,  but  all  the 
ladies  of  her  following. 

Second  Gentleman.  Ay,  that  was  in  her 
hour  of  joy,  there  will  be  plenty  to  sunder 
and  unsister  them  again  ; this  Gardiner  for 
one,  who  is  to  be  made  Lord  Chancellor, 
and  will  pounce  like  a wild  beast  out  of  his 
cage  to  worry  Cranmer. 

First  Gentleman.  And  furthermore,  my 
daughter  said  that  when  there  rose  a talk 
of  the  late  rebellion,  she  spoke  even  of  Nor- 
thumberland pitifully,  and  of  the  good  Lady 
Jane  as  a poor  innocent  child  who  had  but 
obeyed  her  father ; and  furthermore,  she 
said  that  no  one  in  her  time  should  be  burnt 
for  heresy. 

Second  Gentleman.  Well,  sir,  I look  for 
happy  times. 

First  Gentleman.  There  is  but  one  thing 
against  them.  I know  not  if  you  know'. 

Second  Gentleman.  I suppose  you  touch 
upon  the  rumor  that  Charles,  the  master  pf 
the  world,  has  offer’d  her  his  son  Philip, 
the  Pope  and  the  Devil.  I trust  it  is  but  a 
rumor. 

First  Gentleman.  She  is  going  now  to 
the  Tower  to  loose  the  prisoners  there,  and 
among  them  Courtenaj',  to  be  made  Earl  of 
Devon,  of  royal  blood,  of  splendid  feature, 
whom  the  council  and  all  her  people  wish 
her  to  marry.  May  it  be  so,  for  w'e  are 
many  of  us  Catholics,  but  few  Papists,  and 
the  Hot  Gospellers  will  go  mad  upon  it. 

Second  Gentleman.  Was  she  not  be- 
troth’d in  her  babyhood  to  the  Great  Em- 
peror himself? 

First  Gentleman.  Ay,  but  he ’s  too  old. 

Second  Gentleman.  And  again  to  her 
cousin  Reginald  Pole,  row  Cardinal,  but  I 
hear  that  he  too  is  full  of  aches  and  broken 
before  his  day. 

First  Gentleman.  O,  the  Pope  could  dis- 
pense with  his  Cardinalate,  and  his  achage, 
and  his  breakage,  if  that  were  all  : but  will 
you  not  follow  the  procession  ? 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Second  Gentleman  No ; I have  seen 
enough  for’this  day. 

First  Gentleman.  Well,  I shall  follow; 
if  I can  get  near  enough  I shall  judge  with 
my  own  eyes  whether  Her  Grace  incline  to 
this  splendid  scion  of  Plantagenet. 

\_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL  — A ROOM  IN  LAMBETH 
PALACE. 

C7-anmer.  To  Strasburg,  Antwerp,  Frank- 
fort, Zurich,  Worms, 

Geneva,  Basle  — our  Bishops  from  their  sees 
Or  fled,  they  say,  or  flying  — Poinet,  Bar- 
low, 

Bale,  Scory,  Coverdale  ; besides  the  Deans 
Of  Christchurch,  Durham,  Exeter,  and 
Wells  — 

Ailmer  and  Bullingham,  and  hundreds  more; 
So  they  report : I shall  be  left  alone 
No  : Hooper,  Ridley,  Latimer  will  not  fly. 
Enter  Peter  Martyr. 

Peter  Martyr.  Fly,  Cranmer  ! were  there 
nothing  else,  your  name 
Stands  first  of  those  who  sign’d  the  Letters 
Patent 

That  gave  her  royal  crown  to  Lady  Jane. 
Cranmer.  Stand  first  it  may,  but  it  was 
written  last : 

Those  that  are  now  her  Privy  Council,  sign’d 
Before  me : nay,  the  Judges  had  pronounced 
That  our  young  Edward  might  bequeath  the 
crown 

Of  England,  putting  by  his  father’s  will. 

Yet  I stood  out,  till  Edward  sent  for  me. 
The  wan  boy-king,  with  his  fast-fading  eyes 
Fixt  hard  on  mine,  his  frail  transparent  hand. 
Damp  with  the  sweat  of  death,  and  griping 
mine. 

Whisper’d  me,  if  I loved  him,  not  to  yield 
His  Church  of  England  to  the  Papal  wolf 
And  Mary  ; then  I could  no  more  — I sign’d. 
Nay,  for  bare  shame  of  inconsistency. 

She  cannot  pass  her  traitor  council  by. 

To  make  me  headless. 

Peter  Martyr.  That  might  be  forgiven. 
I tell  you,  fly,  my  Lord.  You  do  not  own 
The  bodily  presence  in  the  Eucharist, 

Their  wafer  and  perpetual  sacrifice  : 

Your  creed  will  be  your  death. 

Cranmer.  ^ ^ Step  after  step, 

Thro’  many  voices  crying  right  and  left, 
Have  I climb’d  back  into  the  primal  church. 
And  stand  within  the  porch,  and  Christ  with 
me  ; 

My  flight  were  such  a scandal  to  the  faith, 
The  downfall  of  so  many  simple  souls, 

I dare  not  leave  my  post. 

Peter  Martyr.  But  you  divorced 

Queen  Catharine  and  her  father ; hence,  her 
hate 

Will  bum  till  you  are  burn’d. 

Cranmer.  I cannot  help  it. 

The  Canonists  and  Schoolmen  were  wdth 
, me. 


“Thou  shalt  not  wed  thy  brother’s  wife.”— ^ 
’T  is  written, 

“They  shall  be  childless.”  True,  Mary 
was  born. 

But  France  would  not  accept  her  for  a bride 
As  being  born  from  incest ; and  this  wrought 
Upon  the  king ; and  child  by  child,  you  know. 
Were  mom entarj^  sparkles  out  as  quick 
Almost  as  kindled  ; and  he  brou^t  his  doubts 
And  fears  to  me.  Peter,  I ’ll  swear  for  him 
He  believe  the  bond  incestuous. 

But  wherefore  am  I trenching  on  the  time 
That  should  already  have  seen  your  steps  a 
mile 

From  me  and  Lambeth?  God  be  with  you  ! 
Go. 

Peter  Martyr.  Ah,  but  how  fierce  a letter 
you  wrote  against 

Their  superstition  when  they  slander’d  5mu 
For  setting  up  a mass  at  Canterbury 
To  please  the  Queen. 

Cranmer.  It  was  a wheedling  monk 
Set  up  the  mass. 

Peter  Martyr.  I know  it,  my  good  Lord. 
But  you  so  bubbled  over  with  hot  terms 
Of  Satan,  liars,  blasphemy,  Antichrist, 

She  never  will  forgive  5jou.  Fly,  my  Lord,  fly  ! 
Cranmer.  I wrote  it,  and  God  grant  me 
power  to  bujrn  ! 

Peter  Martyr.  They  have  given  me  a safe 
conduct : for  all  that 
I dare  not  stay.  I fear,  I fear,  I see  you. 
Dear  friend,  for  the  last  time  ; farewell,  and 
fly. 

Cranmer.  Fly  and  farewell,  and  let  me 
die  the  death. 

\_Exit  Peter  Martyr. 
Enter  Old  Servant. 

Old  Servant.  O,  kind  and  gentle  master, 
the  Queen’s  Officers 

Are  here  in  force  to  take  you  to  the  Tower. 
Cranmer.  Ay,  gentle  friend,  admit  them. 
I will  go. 

I thank  my  God  it  is  too  late  to  fly. 

^Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — ST.  PAUL’S  CROSS. 

Father  Bourne  in  the  pulpit.  A crowd. 
Marchioness  of  Exeter,  Courtenay. 
The  SiEUR  DE  Noailles  and  his  man 
Roger  in  front  of  the  stage.  H ubbub. 

Noailles.  Hast  thou  let  fall  those  papers 
in  the  palace  ? 

Roger.  Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  “There  will  be  no  peace  for 
Mary  till  Elizabeth  lose  her  head.” 

Roger.  Ay,  sir. 

Noailles.  And  the  other.  “Long  live 
Elizabeth  the  Queen.” 

Roger.  Ay,  sir.;  she  needs  must  tread 
upon  them. 

Noailles.  W ell. 

These  beastly  swine  make  such  a grunting 
here, 

I cannot  catch  what  father  Bourne  is  saying 


QUEEN  MARY. 


335 


Roger.  Quiet  a moment,  my  masters ; hear 
what  the  shaveling  has  to  say  for  himself. 

Crowd.  Hush  — hear. 

Bourne.  — and  so  this  unhappy  land,  long 
divided  in  itself,  and  sever’d  from  the  faith, 
will  return  into  the  one  true  fold,  seeing  that 
our  gracious  Virgin  Queen  hath  — 

Crowd.  No  pope  ! no  pope  ! 

Roger  {to  those  about  him,  mimicking 
Bourne).  — hath  sent  for  the  holy  legate  of 
the  holy  father  the  Pope,  Cardinal  Pole,  to 
give  us  all  that  holy  absolution  which  — 

First  Citizen.  Old  Bourne  to  the  life  ! 

Second  Citizen.  Holy  absolution  ! holy 
Inquisition  ! 

Third  Citizen.  Down  with  the  Papist. 

IHubbub. 

Bourne.  — and  now  that  your  good  bishop, 
Bonner,  who  hath  lain  so  long  under  bonds 
for  the  faith  — \.H ubbub. 

Noailles.  Friend  Roger,  steal  thou  in 
among  the  crowd. 

And  get  the  swine  to  shout  Elizabeth. 

Yon  gray  old  Gospeller,  sour  as  midwinter, 
Begin  with  him. 

Roger  (goes).  By  the  mass,  old  friend, 
w(e  ’ll  have  no  pope  here  while  the  Lady 
iWizabeth  lives. 

Gospeller.  Art  thou  of  the  true  faith,  fel- 
low', that  swearest  by  the  mass? 

Roger.  Ay,  that  am  I,  new  converted,  but 
the  old  leaven  sticks  to  my  tongue  yet. 

First  Citizen.  He  says  right  *,  by  the  mass 
we  ’ll  have  no  mass  here. 

Voices  of  the  Crowd.  Peace  ! hear  him  ; 
let  his  own  words  damn  the  Papist.  From 
thine  own  mouth  I judge  thee  — tear  him 
down. 

Bourne.  — and  since  our  Gracious  Queen, 
let  me  call  her  our  second  Virgin  Mary,  hath 
begun  to  re-edify  the  true  temple  — 

First  Citizen.  Virgin  Mary  ! we  ’ll  have 
no  virgins  here  — we  ’ll  have  the  Lady  Eliz- 
abeth ! 

\_S words  are  drawn,  a knife  is  htirled, 
and  sticks  in  the  pulpit.  The  mob 
throng  to  the  pidpit  stairs. 

Marchioness  of  Exeter.  Son  Courtenay, 
wilt  thou  see  the  holy  father 
Murder’d  before  thy  face?  up,  son, and  save 
him  ! 

They  love  thee,  and  thou  canst  not  come  to 
harm. 

Courtenay  (in  the ptdpit).  Shame,  shame, 
my  masters  ! are  you  English-born, 
And  set  yourselves  by  hundreds  against  one  ? 

Crowd.  A Courtenay  ! a Courtenay  1 
[A  train  of  Spanish  servants  crosses  at 
the  back  of  the  stage. 

Noailles.  These  birds  of  passage  come 
before  their  time  : 

Stave  off  the  crowd  upon  the  Spaniard  there. 

Roger.  My  masters,  yonder ’s  fatter  game 
for  you 

Than  this  old  gaping  gurgoyle : look  you 
there  — 


The  Prince  of  Spain  coming  to  w'ed  our 
Queen  ! 

After  him,  boys  ! and  pelt  him  from  the  city. 

[ They  seize  stones  and  follow  the  Span- 
iards. Exeunt  on  the  other  side 
Marchioness  of  Exeter  and  At- 
tendants. 

Noailles  (to  Roger).  Stand  from  me.  If 
Elizabeth  lose  her  head  — 

That  makes  for  France. 

And  if  her  people,  anger’d  thereupon. 

Arise  against  her  and  dethrone  the  Queen  — 
That  makes  for  France. 

And  if  I breed  confusion  anyway  — 

That  makes  for  France. 

Good  day,  my  Lord  of  Devon  ; 
A bold  heart  yours  to  beard  that  raging  mob  ! 

Courtenay.  My  mother  said.  Go  up  ; and 
up  I went. 

I knew  they  would  not  do  me  any  wrong. 
For  I am  mighty  popular  with  them,  No- 
ailles. 

Noailles.  You  look’d  a king. 

Courtenay.  Why  not?  I am  king’s  blood. 

Noailles.  And  in  the  whirl  of  change  may 
come  to  be  one. 

Courtenay.  Ah  ! 

Noailles.  But  does  your  gracious  Queen 
entreat  you  king-like? 

Courtenay.  '‘Yoxq  God,  I think  she  en- 
treats me  like  a child. 

Noailles.  You’ve  but  a dull  life  in  this 
maiden  court, 

I fear,  my  Lord. 

Courtenay.  A life  of  nods  and  yawms. 

Noailles.  So  you  would  honor  my  poor 
house  to-night. 

We  might  enliven  you.  Divers  honest  fel- 
lows. 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk  lately  ifreed  from  prison, 
Sir  Peter  Carew  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt, 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  and  some  more  — we 
play. 

Courtenay.  At  what  ? 

Noailles.  The  Game  of  Chess. 

Courtenay.  The  Game  of  Chess  ! 

I can  play  well,  and  I shall  beat  you  there. 

Noailles.  Ay,  but  we  play  with  Henry, 
King  of  France, 

And  certain  of  his  court. 

His  Highness  makes  his  moves  across  the 
channel. 

We  answer  him  with  ours,  and  there  are 
messengers 
That  go  between  us. 

Courtenay.  Why,  such  a game,  sir,  were 
whole  years  a playing. 

Noailles.  Nay  ; not  so  long  I trust.  That 
all  depends 

Upon  the  skill  and  swiftness  of  the  players. 

Courtenay.  The  King  is  skilful  at  it? 

Noailles.  Very,  my  Lord. 

Courtenay.  And  the  stakes  high  ? 

Noailles.  But  not  beyond  your  means. 

Courtenay.  Well,  I ’m  the  first  of  players. 
I shall  win. 


336  QUEEl/  MARY. 


Noailles.  With  our  advice  and  in  our 
company, 

And  so  ypu  well  attend  to  the  king’s  moves, 
I think  you  may. 

Courtenay.  When  do  you  meet  ? 
Noail'.es.  To-night. 

Courtenay  {aside').  I will  be  there ; the 
fellow ’s  at  his  tricks  — 

Deep — I shall  fathom  him.  {Aloud.)  Good- 
morning, Noailles. 

[Earit  Courtenay. 
Noailles.  Good-day,  my  Lord.  Strange 
game  of  chess  ! a King 
That  with  her  own  pawns  plays  against  a 
Queen, 

Whose  play  is  all  to  find  herself  a King. 

Ay ; but  this  fine  blue-blooded  Courtenay 
seems 

Too  princely  for  a pawn.  Call  him  a Knight, 
That,  with  an  ass’s  not  an  horse’s  head, 
Skips  every  way,  from  levity  or  from  fear. 
Well,  we  shall  use  him  somehow,  so  that 
Gardiner 

And  Simon  Renard  spy  not  out  our  game 
Too  early.  Roger,  thinkest  thou  that  any 
one 

Suspected  thee  to  be  my  man  ? 

Roger.  Not  one,  sir. 

Noailles.  No  ! the  disguise  was  perfect. 
Let ’s  away  ! [,Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — LONDON.  A ROOM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 
Elizabeth.  Enter  Courtenay. 
Courtenay.  So  yet  am  I, 

Unless  my  friends  and  mirrors  lie  to  me, 

A goodlier-looking  fellow  than  this  Philip. 
Pah  ! 

The  Queen  is  ill  advised : shall  I turn 
traitor? 

They ’ve  almost  talk’d  me  into  : yet  the  word 
Affrights  me  somewhat  : to  be  such  a one 
As  Harry  Bolingbroke  hath  a lure  in  it. 
Good  now,  my  Lady  Queen,  tho’  by  your 
age, 

And  by  your  looks  you  are  not  worth  the 
having. 

Yet  by  your  crown  you  are. 

{Seeing  Elizabeth. 
The  Princess  there? 
If  I tried  her  and  la  — she ’s  amorous. 

Have  we  not  heard  of  her  in  Edward’s  time, 
Her  freaks  and  frolics  with  the  late  Lord 
Admiral  ? 

I do  believe  she ’d  yield.  I should  be  still 
A party  in  the  state  ; and  then,  who  knows  — 
Elizabeth.  What  are  you  musing  on,  my 
Lord  of  Devon  ? 

Courtenay.  Has  not  the  Queen  — 
Elizabeth.  Done  what.  Sir? 

Courtenay.  — Made  you  follow 

The  Lady  Suffolk  and  the  Lady  Lennox. 
You, 

The  heir  presumptive. 

Elizabeth.  Why  do  you  ask  ? you  know  it. 


Courtenay.  You  needs  must  bear  it  hardly. 

Elizabeth.  No,  indeed  ! 

I am  utterly  submissive  to  the  Queen. 

Courtenay.  Well,  I was  musing  upon  that ; 
the  Queen 

Is  both  my  foe  and  yours:  we  should  be 
friends. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  the  hatred  of  an- 
other to  us 

Is  no  true  bond  of  friendship. 

Courtenay.  Might  it  not 

Be  the  rough  preface  of  some  closer  bond  ? 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  you  late  were  loosed 
from  out  the  Tower, 

Where,  Bke  a butterfly  in  a chrysalis, 

You  spent  your  life ; that  broken,  out  you 
flutter 

Thro’  the  new  world,  go  zigzag,  now  would 
settle 

Upon  this  flower,  now  that ; but  all  things 
here 

At  court  are  known : you  have  solicited 
The  Queen,  and  been  rejected. 

Courtenay.  Flower,  she  ! 

Half  faded  ! but  you,  cousin,  are  fresh  and 
sweet 

As  the  first  flower  no  bee  has  ever  tried. 

Elizabeth.  Are  you  the  bee  to  try  me? 
why,  but  now 
I called  you  butterfly. 

Courtenay.  You  did  me  wrong, 

I love  not  to  be  called  a butterfly  : 

Why  do  you  call  me  butterfly  ? 

Elizabeth.  Why  do  you  go  so  gay  then  ? 

Courtenay.  Velvet  and  gold. 

This  dress  was  made  me  as  the  Earl  of 
Devon 

To  take  my  seat  in  ; looks  it  not  right  royal  ? 

Elizabeth.  So  royal  that  the  Queen  for- 
bade you  wearing  it. 

Courtenay.  I wear  it  then  to  spite  her. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord,  my  I.ord  ; 

I see  you  in  the  Tower  again.  Her  Majesty 
Hears  you  affect  the  Prince  — prelates  kneel 
to  you. — 

Courtenay.  I am  the  noblest  blood  in 
Europe,  Madam, 

A Courtenay  of  Devon,  and  her  cousin. 

Elizabeth.  She  hears  you  make  your  boast 
that  after  all 

She  means  to  wed  you.  Folly,  my  good 
Lord. 

Courtenay.  How  folly?  a great  party  in 
the  state 

Wills  me  to  wed  her. 

Elizabeth.  Failing  her,  my  Lord, 

Doth  not  as  great  a party  in  the  state 
Will  you  to  wed  me  ? 

Courtenay.  Even  so,  fair  lady. 

Elizabeth.  You  know  to  flatter  ladies. 

Courtenay.  Nay,  I meant 

True  matters  of  the  heart. 

Elizabeth.  My  heart,  my  Lord, 

Is  no  great  party  in  the  state  as  yet. 

. Courtenay.  Great,  said  you?  nay,  you 
shall  be  great.  I love  you. 

Lay  my  life  in  your  hands.  Can  you  be  close  ? 


QUEEN  MARY.  ■ 3^,7 


EUzaheih.  Can  you,  my  Lord? 

Courtenay,  Close  as  a miser’s  casket. 
Listen  : 

The  King  of  France,  Noailles  the  Ambassa- 
dor, 

The  Duke  of  Suffolk  and  Sir  Peter  Carew, 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  I myself,  some  others. 
Have  sworn  this  Spanish  marriage  shall  not 
be. 

If  Mary  will  not  hear  us  — well — conjec- 
ture  — 

Were  I in  Devon  with  my  wedded  bride. 
The  people  there  so  worship  me  — Your 
ear ; 

You  shall  be  Queen. 

Elizabeth.  You  speak  too  low,  my  Lord  ; 
I cannot  hear  you. 

Courtenay.  I’ll  repeat  it. 

Elizabeth.  No ! 

Stand  farther  off,  or  you  may  lose  your 
head. 

Courtenay.  I have  a head  to  lose  for  your 
sweet  sake. 

Elizabeth,  Have  you,  my  Lord?  Best 
keep  it  for  your  own. 

Nay,  pout  not,  cousin. 

Not  many  friends  are  mine,  except  indeed 
Among  the  many-  I believe  you  mine  ; 

And  so  you  may  continue  mine,  farewell, 
And  that  at  once. 

Enter  Mary,  behind. 

Mary.  Whispering  — leagued  together 
To  bar  me  from  my  Philip. 

Co7irtenay.  Pray  — consider  — 

Elizabeth  {seeing  the  Queen).  Well, 
that ’s  a noble  horse  of  yours,  my 
Lord. 

I trust  that  he  will  carry  you  well  to-day. 
And  heal  your  headache. 

Courtenay.  You  are  wild  ; what  head- 
ache ? 

Heartache,  perchance  ; not  headache, 

Elizabeth  [aside  to  Courtenay).  Are 
you  blind  ? 

[Courtenay  sees  the  Queen  and  exit. 
Exit  M ARY. 

Enter  Lord  William  Howard. 

Hoivard.  Was  that  my  Lord  of  Devon? 
do  not  you 

Be  seen  in  corners  wu'th  my  Lord  of  Devon, 
He  hath  fallen  out  of  favor  with  the  Queen. 
She  fears  the  Lords  may  side  with  you  and 
him 

Against  her  marriage  ; therefore  is  he  dan- 
, gerous. 

And  if  this  Prince  of  fluff  and  feather  come 
To  w'oo  you,  niece,  he  is  dangerous  every 
way. 

Elizabeth.  Not  very  dangerous  that  way, 
my  good  uncle. 

Hoivard.  But  your  owm  state  is  full  of 
danger  here. 

The  disaffected,  heretics,  reformers. 

Look  to  you  as  the  one  to  crown  their  ends. 
Mix  not  yourself  with  any  plot  I pray  you  ; 
Nay,  if  by  chance  you  hear  of  any  such. 


Speak  not  thereof — no,  not  to  your  best 
friend. 

Lest  you  should  be  confounded  with  it. 
Still  — 

Perinde  ac  cadaver  — as  the  priest  says. 

You  know  your  Latin — quiet  as  a dead 
body. 

What  was  my  Lord  of  Devon  telling  you  ? 

Elizabeth.  Whether  he  told  me  any  thing 
or  not, 

I follow  your  good  counsel,  gracious  uncle. 
Quiet  as  a dead  body. 

Hoivard.  You  do  right  well. 

I do  not  care  to  know ; but  this  I charge 
you, 

Tell  Courtenay  nothing.  The  Lord  Chan- 
cellor 

(I  count  it  as  a kind  of  virtue  in  him, 

He  hath  not  many),  as  a mastiff  dog 
May  love  a puppy  cur  for  no  more  reason 
Than  that  the  twain  have  been  tied  up  to- 
gether. 

Thus  Gardiner — for  the  two  were  fellow- 
prisoners 

So  many  years  in  yon  accursed  Tow  er — 
Hath  taken  to  this  Courtenay.  Look  to  it, 
niece. 

He  hath  no  fence  when  Gardiner  questions 
him  ; 

All  oozes  out  ; yet  him  — because  they  know 
him 

The  last  White  Rose,  the  last  Plantagenet 
(Nay,  there  is  Cardinal  Pole,  too),  the  peo- 
ple 

Claim  as  their  natural  leader  — ay,  some 
say. 

That  you  shall  marry  him,  make  him  King 
belike. 

Elizabeth.  Do  they  say  so,  good  uncle  ? 

Hoivard,  Ay,  good  niece  ! 

You  should  be  plain  and  open  with  me, 
niece. 

You  should  not  play  upon  me. 

Elizabeth.  No,  good  uncle. 

Enter  Gardiner. 

Gardiner.  The  Queen  w'ould  see  your 
Grace  upon  the  moment. 

Elizabeth.  Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 

Gardiner.  I think  she  means  to  counsel 
your  withdrawing 

To  Ashridge,  or  some  other  country  house. 

Elizabeth.  Why,  my  lord  Bishop  ? 

Gardiner.  I do  but  bring  the  message, 
know’  no  more. 

Your  Grace  will  hear  her  reasons  from  her- 
self. 

Elizabeth.  ’T  is  mine  own  wish  fulfill’d 
before  the  word 

Was  spoken,  for  in  truth  I had  meant  to 
crave 

Permission  of  her  Highness  to  retire 
To  Ashridge,  and  pursue  my  studies  there. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  to  have  the  wish  be- 
fore the  word 

Is  man’s  good  Fairy  — and  the  Queen  is 
yours. 

I left  her  with  rich  jewels  in  her  hand. 


/ 


333 


- QUEEN  MARY. 


Whereof  ’t  is  like  enough  she  means  to 
make. 

A farewell  present  to  your  Grace. 

Elizabeth.  My  Lord, 

I have  the  jewel  of  a loyal  heart. 

Gardiner.  I doubt  it  not,  Madam,  most 
loyal.  [Bows  low  and  exit. 

Howard.  See, 

This  comes  of  parleying  with  my  Lord  of 
Devon. 

Well,  well,  you  must  obey  ; and  I myself 
Believe  it  will  be  better  for  your  welfare. 
Your  time  will  come. 

Elizabeth.  I think  my  time  will  come. 
Uncle, 

I am  of  sovereign  nature,  that  I know. 

Not  to  be  quell’d  ; and  I have  felt  within 
me 

Stirrings  of  some  great  doom  when  God’s 
just  hour 

Peals — but  this  fierce  old  Gardiner  — his 
big  baldness. 

That  irritable  forelock  which  he  rubs, 

His  buzzard  beak  and  deep-incavern’d 
eyes 

Half  fright  me. 

Hoxvard.  You  Ve  a bold  heart ; keep  it  so. 
He  cannot  touch  you  save  that  you  turn 
traitor  ; 

And  so  take  heed  I pray  you  — you  are  one 
Who  love  that  men  should  smile  upon  you, 
niece. 

They  ’d  smile  you  into  treason — some  of 
them. 

Elizabeth.  I spy  the  rock  beneath  the 
smiling  sea. 

But  if  this  Philip,  - the  proud  Catholic 
prince. 

And  this  bald  priest,  and  she  that  hates  me, 
seek 

In  that  lone  house,  to  practise  on  my  life, 

By  poison,  fire,  shot,  stab  — 

Howard.  They  will  not,  niece. 

Mine  is  the  fleet  and  all  the  power  at  sea  — 
Or  will  be  in  a moment.  If  they  dared 
To  harm  you,  I would  blow  this  Philip  and 
all 

Your  trouble  to  the  dogstar  and  the  devil. 

Elizabeth.  To  the  Pleiads,  uncle ; they 
have  lost  a sister. 

Howard.  But  why  say  that?  what  have 
you  done  to  lose  her? 

Come,  come,  I will  go  with  you  to  the 
Queen.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  — A ROOM  IN  THE 
PALACE. 

Mapy  with  Philip’s  miniature.  Alice. 

Mary  {kissing  the  miniature).  Most 
goodly,  Kinglike,  and  an  emperor’s 
son,  — 

A king  to  be,  — is  he  not  noble,  girl  ? 

Alice.  Goodly  enough,  your  Grace,  and 
yet,  methinks, 

I have  seen  goodlier. 

Mary.  Ay  ; some  waxen  doll 


Thy  baby  eyes  have  rested  on,  belike  ; 

All  red  and  white,  the  fashion  of  our  land. 
But  my  good  mother  came  (God  rest  her 
soul) 

Of  Spain,  and  I am  Spanish  in  myself. 

And  in  my  likings. 

A lice.  By  your  Grace’s  leave 

Your  royal  mother  came  of  Spain,  but  took 
To  the  English  red  and  white.  Your  royal 
father 

(For  so  they  say)  was  all  pure  lily  and  rose 
In  his  youth,  and  like  a lady. 

Mary.  O,  just  God  ! 

Sweet  mother,  you  had  time  and  cause 
enough 

To  sicken  of  his  lilies  and  his  roses. 

Cast  off,  betray’d,  defamed,  divorced,  for- 
lorn ! 

And  then  the  king  — that  traitor  past  for- 
giveness. 

The  false  archbishop  fawning  on  him,  mar- 
ried 

The  mother  of  Elizabeth  — a heretic 
Ev’n  as  sh^  is  ; but  God  hath  sent  me  here 
To  take  such  order  with  all  heretics 
That  it  shall  be,  before  I die,  as  tho’ 

My  father  and  my  brother  had  not  lived. 
What  wast  thou  saying  of  this  Lady  Jane, 
Now  in  the  Tower  ? 

Alice.  Why,  Madam,  she  was  passing 
Some  chapel  down  in  Essex,  and  with  her 
Lady  Anne  Wharton,  and  the  Lady  Anne 
Bow’d  to  the  Pyx  ; but  Lady  Jane  stood  up 
Stiff  as  the  very  backbone  of  heresy. 

And  wherefore  bow  ye  not,  says  Lady  Anne, 
To  him  within  there  who  made  Heaven  and 
Earth  ? 

I cannot  and  I dare  not,  tell  your  Grace 
What  Lady  Jane  replied. 

Mary.  ^ But  I will  have  it. 

A lice-  She  said  — pray  pardon  me,  and 
pity  her  — 

She  hath  hearken’d  evil  counsel  — ah  ! she 
said, 

The  baker  made  him. 

Mary.  Monstrous  ! blasphemous  ! 

She  ought  to  burn.  Hence,  thou!  {Exit 
Alice.)  No  — being  traitor 
Her  head  will  fall:  shall  it?  she  is  but  a 
child. 

We  do  not  kill  the  child  for  doing  that 
His  father  whipt  him  into  doing  — a head 
So  full  of  grace  and  beauty  I would  that  mine 
Were  half  as  gracious  ! O,  my  lord  to  be, 
My  love,  for  thy  sake  only. 

I am  eleven  years  older  than  he  is. 

But  will  he  care  for  that  ? 

No,  by  the  holy  Virgin,  being  noble. 

But  love  me  only  : then  the  bastard  sprout, 
My  sister,  is  far  fairer  than  myself. 

Will  he  be  drawn  to  her? 

No,  being  of  the  true  faith  with  myself. 

Paget  is  for  him  — for  to  wed  with  Spain 
Would  treble  England  — Gardiner  is  against 
him  ; 

The  Council,  people,  Parliament  against 
him  ; 


QUEEN  MARY.  339 


But  I will  have  him  ! My  hard  father  hated 
me  ; 

My  brother  rather  hated  me  than  loved  ; 

My  sister  cowers  and  hates  me.  Holy  Virgin, 
Plead  with  thy  blessed  Son ; grant  me  my 
prayer ; 

Give  me  my  Philip  ; and  we  two  will  lead 
The  living  waters  of  the  Faith  again 
Back  thro’  their  widow’d  channel  here,  and 
watch 

The  parch’d  banks  rolling  incense,  as  of  old. 
To  heaven,  and  kindled  with  the  palms  of 
Christ ! 

Enter  Usher. 

Who  waits,  sir? 

Usher.  Madam,  the  Lord  Chancellor. 

Mary.  Bid  him  come  in.  i^Enter  Gardi- 
ner.) Good-morning,  my  good  Lord. 

\_Exit  Usher. 

Gardiner.  That  every  morning  of  your 
Majesty 

Maybe  most  good,  is  every  morning’s  prayer 
Of  your  most  loyal  subject,  Stephen  Gardiner. 

Mary.  Come  you  to  tell  me  this,  my  Lord  ? 

Gardiner.  And  more. 

Your  people  have  begun  to  learn  your  worth. 
Your  pious  wish  to  pay  King  Edward’s  debts. 
Your  lavish  household  curb’d,  and  the  re- 
mission 

Of  half  that  subsidy  levied  on  the  people. 
Make  all  tongues  praise  and  all  hearts  beat 
for  you. 

I ’d  have  you  yet  more  loved  : the  realm  is 
poor. 

The  exchequer  at  neap-ebb  : we  might  with- 
draw 

Part  of  our  garrison  at  Calais. 

Mary.  Calais ! 

Our  one  point  on  the  main,  the  gate  of 
France  ! 

I am  Queen  of  England  ; take  mine  eyes, 
mine  heart. 

But  do  not  lose  me  Calais. 

Gardiner.  Do  not  fear  it. 

Of  that  hereafter.  I say  your  Grace  is  loved. 
That  I may  keep  you  thus,  who  am  your 
friend 

And  ever  faithful  counsellor,  might  I speak? 

Mary.  I can  forespeak  your  speaking. 
Would  I marry 

Prince  Philip,  if  all  England  hate  him  ? 
That  is 

Your  question,  and  I front  it  with  another  : 

Is  it  England,  or  a party?  Now,  your  an- 
swer. 

Gardiner.  My  answer  is,  I wear  beneath 
my  dress 

A shirt  of  mail : my  house  hath  been  as- 
saulted. 

And  when  I walk  abroad,  the  populace. 

With  finders  pointed  like  so  many  daggers. 
Stab  me  in  fancy,  hissing  Spain  and  Philip  ; 
And  when  I sleep,  a hundred  men-at-arms 
Guard  my  poor  dreams  for  England.  Men 
would  murder  me. 

Because  they  think  me  favorer  of  this  mar- 
riage. 


Mary.  And  that  were  hard  upon  you,  my 
Lord  Chancellor. 

Gardiner.  But  our  young  Earl  of  Devon — 

Mary.  Earl  of  Devon  ? 

I freed  him  from  the  Tower,  placed  him  at 
Court  ; 

I made  him  Earl  of  Devon,  and  — the  fool  — 
He  wrecks  his  health  and  wealth  on  cour- 
tesans. 

And  rolls  himself  in  carrion  like  a dog. 

Gardiner.  More  like  a school-boy  that 
hath  broken  bounds. 

Sickening  himself  with  sweets. 

Mary.  I will  not  hear  of  him. 

Good,  then,  they  will  revolt : but  I am  Tudor, 
And  shall  control  them. 

Gardiner.  I will  help  you.  Madam, 

Even  to  the  utmost.  All  the  church  is 
grateful. 

You  have  ousted  the  mock  priest,  repulpited 
The  shepherd  of  St.  Peter,  raised  the  rood 
again. 

And  brought  us  back  the  mass.  I am  all 
thanks 

To  God  and  to  your  Grace  : yet  I know  well, 
Your  people,  and  I go  with  them  so  far, 

Will  brook  nor  Pope  nor  Spaniard  here  to 
play 

The  tyrant,  or  in  commonwealth  or  church. 

Mary  {showing  the  picture).  Is  this  the 
face  of  one  w’ho  plays  the  tyrant  ? 
Peruse  it ; is  it  not  goodly,  ay,  and  gentle? 

Gardiner.  Madam,  methinks  a cold  face 
and  a haughty. 

And  when  your  Highness  talks  of  Courte- 
nay — 

Ay,  true  — a goodly  one.  T would  his  life 
Were  half  as  goodly  {aside). 

Mary.  What  is  that  you  mutter  ? 

Gardiner.  Oh,  Madam,  take  it  bluntly  ; 
marry  Philip, 

And  be  step-mother  of  a score  of  sons  ! 

The  prince  is  known  in  Spain,  in  Flanders, 
ha  ! 

For  Philip  — 

Mary.  You  offend  us ; you  may  leave  us. 
You  see  thro’  warping  glasses. 

Gardiner.  If  your  Majesty  — 

Mary.  I have  sworn  upon  the  body  and 
blood  of  Christ 
I ’ll  none  but  Philip. 

Gardiner.  Hath  your  Grace  so  sworn  ? 

Mary.  Ay,  Simon  Renard  knows  it. 

Gardiner.  News  to  me  ! 

It  then  remains  for  your  poor  Gardiner, 

So  you  still  care  to  trust  him  somew'hat  less 
Than  Simon  Renard,  to  compose  the  event 
In  some  such  form  as  least  may  harm  your 
Grace. 

Mary.  I ’ll  have  the  scandal  sounded  to 
the  mud. 

I know  it  a scandal. 

Gardiner.  All  my  hope  is  now 

It  may  be  found  a scandal. 

Mary.  You  offend  us. 

Gardiner  {aside).  These  princes  are  like 
children,  must  be  physick’d, 


340 


QUEEN  MARY, 


The  bitter  in  the  sweet.  I have  lost  mine 
office, 

It  may  be,  thro’  mine  honesty,  like  a fool. 

\_Exit. 

Enter  Usher. 


Mary.  Who  waits  ? 

Usher.  The  Ambassador  from  France, 
your  Grace. 

Mary.  Bid  him  come  in.  Good-morning, 
Sir  de  Noailles.  \Exit  Usher. 

Noailles  {entering),  A happy  morning  to 
your  Majesty. 

Mary.  And  I should  some  time  have  a 
happy  morning  ; 

I have  had  none  yet.  What  says  the  King 
your  master? 

Noailles.  Madam,  my  master  hears  with 
much  alarm, 

That  you  may  marry  Philip,  Prince  of 
Spain  — 

Foreseeing,  with  whate’er  unwillingness, 
That  if  this  Philip  be  the  titular  king 
Of  England,  and  at  war  with  him,  your  Grace 
And  kingdom  will  be  suck’d  into  the  war, 
Ay,  tho’  you  long  for  peace  ; wherefore,  my 
master. 

If  but  to  prove  your  Majesty’s  good  will, 
Would  fain  have  some  fresh  treaty  drawn 
between  you. 

Mary.  Why  some  fresh  treaty  ? wherefore 
should  Ido  it? 

Sir,  if  we  marry,  we  shall  still  maintain 
All  former  treaties  with  his  Majesty. 

Our  royal  word  for  that  ! and  your  good 
master, 

Pray  God  he  do  not  be  the  first  to  break  them. 
Must  be  content  with  that ; and  so,  farewell. 

Noailles  {going,  returns).  I would  your 
answ'er  had  been  other.  Madam, 

For  I foresee  dark  days. 

Mary.  And  so  do  I,  sir  ; 

Your  master  works  against  me  in  the  dark. 

I do  believe  he  holp  Northumberland 


Against  me. 

Noailles.  Nay,  pure  fantasy,  your  Grace. 
Why  should  he  move  against  you  ? 

Mary.  Will  you  hear  why? 

Mary  of  Scotland,  — for  I have  not  own’d 
My  sister,  and  I will  not,  — after  me 
Is  heir  of  England  ; and  my  royal  father. 

To  make  the  crown  of  Scotland  one  with  ours. 
Had  mark’d  her  for  my  brother  Edward’s 
bride ; 

Ay,  but  your  king  stole  her  a babe  from 
Scotland 

In  order  to  betroth  her  to  your  Dauphin. 
See  then  : 

Mary  of  Scotland,  married  to  your  Dauphin, 
Would  make  our  England,  France; 

Mary  of  England,  joining  hands  with  Spain, 
Would  be  too  strong  for  France. 

Yea,  were  there  issue  born  to  her,  Spain  and 


WC  j 

One  crown,  might  rule  the  world.  There 
lies  your  fear. 

That  is  your  drift.  You  play  at  hide  and  seek. 
Show  me  your  faces  ! 


Noailles.  Madam,  T am  amazed  : 

French,  1 must  needs  wish  all  good  things 
for  France. 

That  must  be  pardon’d  me  ; but  I protest 
Your  Grace’s  policy  hath  a farther  flight 
Than  mine  into  the  future.  We  but  seek 
Some  settled  ground  for  peace  to  stand  upon. 

Mary.  Well,  we  will  leave  all  this,  sir,  to 
our  council. 

Have  you  seen  Philip  ever? 

Noailles.  Only  once. 

Mary.  Is  this  like  Philip? 

Noailles.  Ay,  but  nobler-looking. 

Mary.  Hath  he  the  large  ability  of  the 
Emperor? 

Noailles.  No,  surely. 

Mary.  I can  make  allowance  for  thee, 
Thou  speakest  of  the  enemy  of  thy  king. 

Noailles.  Make  no  allowance  for  the 
naked  truth. 

He  is  every  way  a lesser  man  than  Charles ; 
Stone-hard,  ice-cold  — no  dash  of  daring  in 
him. 

Mary.  If  cold,  his  life  is  pure. 

Noailles.  Why  {smiling),  no,  indeed. 

Mary.  Sayst  thou  ? 

Noailles.  A very  wanton  life  indeed 
{smiling). 

Mary.  Your  audience  is  concluded,  sir. 

[Exit  Noailles. 

You  cannot 

Learn  a man’s  nature  from  his  natural  foe. 

Efiter  Usher. 

Who  waits? 

Usher.  The  ambassador  of  Spain,  your 
Grace.  [E.xit. 

Enter  Simon  Renard. 

Mary.  Thou  art  ever  welcome,  Simon 
Renard.  Hast  thou 

Brought  me  the  letter  which  thine  Emperor 
promised 

Long  since,  a formal  offef  of  the  hand  of 
Philip? 

Renard.  Nay,  your  Grace,  it  hath  not 
reach’d  me. 

I know  not  wherefore  — some  mischance  of 
flood. 

And  broken  bridge,  or  spavin’d  horse,  or 
wave 

And  wind  at  their  old  battle ; he  must  have 
written. 

Mary.  But  Philip  never  writes  me  one 
poor  word, 

Which  in  his  absence  had  been  all  my  wealth. 
Strange  in  a wooer ! 

Renard.  ^ Yet  I know  the  Prince, 

So  your  king-parliament  suffer  him  to  land. 
Yearns  to  set  foot  upon  your  island  shore. 

Mary.  God  change  the  pebble  which  his 
kingly  foot 

First  presses  into  some  more  costly  stone 
Than  ever  blinded  eye-  I ’ll  have  one  mark  it 
And  bring  it  me.  I ’ll  have  it  burnish’d 
firelike ; ... 

I ’ll  set  it  round  with  gold,  with  pearl,  with 
diamond. 


QUEEN  MARY,  341 


Let  the  great  angel  of  the  church  come  with 
him  ; 

Stand  on  the  deck  and  spread  his  wings  for 
sail ! 

God  lay  the  waves  and  strew  the  storms  at 
sea, 

And  here  at  land  among  the  people.  O 
Renard, 

I am  much  beset,  I am  almost  in  despair. 
Paget  is  ours.  Gardiner  perchance  is  ours ; 
But  for  our  heretic  Parliament  — 

Renard.  O Madam, 

You  fly  your  thoughts  like  kites.  My  master, 
Charles, 

Bade  you  go  softly  with  your  heretics  here. 
Until  your  throne  had  ceased  to  tremble. 
Then 

Spit  them  like  larks  for  aught  I care.  Be- 
sides, 

When  Henry  broke  the  carcass  of  your 
church 

To  pieces,  there  were  many  wolves  among  you 
Who  dragg’d  the  scatter’d  limbs  into  their 
den. 

The  Pope  would  have  you  make  them  render 
these ; _ 

So  would  your  cousin,  Cardinal  Pole ; ill 
counsel ! 

These  let  them  keep  at  present ; stir  not  yet 
This  matter  of  the  Church  lands.  At  his 
coming 

Your  star  will  rise. 

Mary.  My  star  ! a baleful  one. 

I see  but  the  black  night,  and  hear  the  wolf. 
What  star? 

Renard.  Your  star  will  be  your  princely 
son, 

Pleir  of  this  England  and  the  Netherlands  ! 
And  if  your  wolf  the  while  should  howl  for 
more 

We  ’ll  dust  him  from  a bag  of  Spanish  gold. 
1 do  believe,  I have  dusted  some  already. 
That,  soon  or  late,  your  parliament  is  ours. 

Mary.  Why  do  they  talk  so  foully  of 
your  Prince, 

Renard? 

Retiard.  The  lot  of  princes.  To  sit  high 
Is  to  be  lied  about. 

Mary.  They  call  him  cold. 

Haughty,  ay,  worse. 

Renard.  Why,  doubtless,  Philip  shows 
Some  of  the  bearing  of  your  blue  blood  — 
still 

All  within  measure  — nay,  it  well  becomes 
him. 

Mary.  Hath  he  the  large  ability  of  his 
father? 

Renard.  Nay,  some  believe  that  he  will 
go  beyond  him. 

Mary.  Is  this  like  him? 

Renard.  Ay,  somewhat ; but  your  Philip 
Is  the  most  princelike  Prince  beneath  the 
sun. 

This  is  a daub  to  Philip. 

Mary.  Of  a pure  life? 

Renard.  As  an  angel  among  angels. 
Yea,  by  Heaven, 


The  text  — Your  Highness  knows  it,  “ Who- 
soever 

Looketh  after  a woman,”  would  not  graze 
The  Prince  of  Spain.  You  are  happy  in 
him  there. 

Chaste  as  your  Grace  ! 

Mary.  I am  happy  in  him  there. 

Renard.  And  would  be  altogether  happy. 
Madam, 

So  that  your  sister  were  but  look’d  to  closer. 
You  have  sent  her  from  the  court,  but  then 
she  goes, 

I warrant,  not  to  hear  the  nightingales. 

But  hatch  you  some  new  treason  in  the 
woods. 

Mary.  We  have  our  spies  abroad  to  catch 
her  tripping. 

And  then  if  caught,  to  the  Tower. 

Renard.  The  Tower  ! the  block. 

The  word  has  turn’d  your  Highness  pale  ; 
the  thing 

Was  no  such  scarecrow  in  your  father’s  time. 
I have  heard,  the  tongue  yet  quiver’d  with  the 
jest 

When  the  head  leapt  — so  common  ! I do 
think 

To  save  your  crown  that  it  must  come  to  this. 

Mary.  I love  her  not,  but  all  the  people 
love  her, 

And  would  not  have  her  even  to  the  Tower. 

Renard,  Not  yet ; but  your  old  Traitors 
of  the  Tower  — 

Why,  when  you  put  Northumberland  to 
death. 

The  sentence  having  past  upon  them  all, 
Spared  you  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Guildford 
Dudley, 

Ev’n  that  young  girl  who  dared  to  wear  your 
crown  ? 

Mary.  Dared,  no,  not  that;  the  child 
obey’d  her  father. 

Spite  of  her  tears  her  father  forced  it  on  her. 

Renard.  Good  Madam,  when  the  Roman 
wish’d  to  reign, 

He  slew  not  him  alone  who  wore  the  purple, 
But  his  assessor  in  the  throne,  perchance 
A child  more  innocent  than  Lady  Jane. 

Mary.  I am  English  Queen,  not  Roman 
Emperor. 

Renard.  Yet  too  much  mercy  is  a want 
of  mercy. 

And  wastes  more  life.  Stamp  out  the  fire, 
or  this 

Will  smoulder  and  re-flame,  and  burn  the 
throne 

Where  you  should  sit  with  Philip  ; he  will 
not  come 
Till  she  be  gone. 

Mary.  Indeed,  if  that  were  true  — 

But  I must  say  farewell.  I am  somewhat 
faint 

With  our  long  talk.  Tho’  Queen,  I am  not 
Queen 

Of  mine  own  heart,  which  every  now  and  then 
Beats  me  half  dead : yet  stay,  this  golden 
chain  — 

My  father  on  a birthday  gave  it  me. 


342 


QUEEN  MARY. 


A 


And  I have  broken  with  my  father  — take 
And  wear  it  as  memorial  of  a morning 
\v  hich  found  me  full  of  foolish  doubts,  and 
leaves  me 
As  hopeful. 

Renard  {aside).  Whew  — the  folly  of  all 
follies 

Is  to  be  love-sick  for  a shadow.  (Aloud) 
Madam, 

This  chains  me  to  your  service,  not  with  gold, 
But  dearest  links  of  love.  Farewell,  and 
trust  me, 

Philip  is  yours.  [Ejeil. 

Mary.  Mine — but  not  yet  all  mine. 

Enter  Usher. 

Usher.  Your  Council  is  in  Session,  please 
your  Majesty. 

Mary.  Sir,  let  them  sit.  I must  have 
time  to  breathe. 

No,  say  I come.  (Exit  Usher.)  I won  by 
boldness  once. 

The  Emperor  counsell’d  me  to  fly  to  Flan- 
ders. 

I would  not ; but  a hundred  miles  I rode, 
Sent  out  my  letters,  call’d  my  friends  to- 
gether, 

Struck  home  and  won. 

And  when  the  Council  would  not  crown 
me  — thought 

To  bind  me  first  by  oaths  I could  not  keep, 
And  keep  with  Christ  and  conscience  — was 
it  boldness  , 

Or  weakness  that  won  there  ? when  I their 
Queen, 

Cast  myself  down  upon  my  knees  before 
them, 

And  those  hard  men  brake  into  woman  tears, 
Ev’n  Gardiner,  all  amazed,  and  in  that 
passion 

Gave  me  my  Crown. 

Enter  Alice. 

Girl ; hast  thou  ever  heard 
Slanders  against  Prince  Philip  in  our  Court? 

Alice.  What  slanders?  I,  your  Grace; 
no,  never. 

Mary.  Nothing? 

Alice.  Never,  your  Grace. 

Mary.  See  that  you  neither  hear  them 
nor  repeat  ! 

A lice  {aside).  Good  Lord!  but  I have 
heard  a thousand  such. 

Ay,  and  repeated  them  as  often  — mum  ! 
Why  comes  that  old  fox-Fleming  back  again  ? 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.  Madam,  I scarce  had  left  your 
Grace’s  presence 

Before  I chanced  upon  the  messenger 
Who  brings  that  letter  which  we  waited  for  — 
The  formal  offer  of  Prince  Philip’s  hand. 

It  craves  an  instant  answer.  Ay  or  No? 

Mary.  An  instant,  Ay  or  No  I the  Coun- 
cil sits. 

Give  it  me  quick. 

Alice  (stepping  before  her).  Your  High- 
ness is  all  trembling. 


Mary.  Make  way. 

\Exit  into  the  Council  Chamber. 
A lice.  O,  Master  Renard,  Master  Renard, 
If  you  have  falsely  painted  your  fine  Prince  ; 
Praised,  where  you  should  have  blamed  him, 
I pray  God 

No  woman  ever  love  you.  Master  Renard. 

It  breaks  my  heart  to  hear  her  moan  at 
night 

As  tho’  the  nightmare  never  left  her  bed. 
Renard.  My  pretty  maiden,  tell  me,  did 
you  ever 
Sigh  for  a beard  ? 

Alice.  That ’s  not  a pretty  question. 
Renard.  Not  prettily  put?  I mean,  my 
pretty  maiden, 

A pretty  man  for  such  a pretty  maiden. 

A lice.  My  Lord  of  Devon  is  a pretty  man. 
I hate  him.  Well,  but  if  I have,  what  then? 
Renard.  Then,  pretty  maiden,  you  should 
know  that  whether 

A wind  be  warm  or  cold,  it  serves  to  fan 
A kindled  fire. 

A lice.  According  to  the  song. 

“ His  friends  would  praise  him,  I believed  ’em. 
His  foes  would  blame  him,  and  1 scorned  ’em, 
His  friends  — as  Angels  I received  ’em, 

His  foes  — the  Devil  had  suborn’d  ’em.” 

Renard.  Peace,  pretty  maiden. 

I hear  them  stirring  in  the  Council  Chamber. 
Lord  Paget’s  “Ay”  is  sure  — who  else? 
and  yet, 

They  are  all  too  much  at  odds  to  close  at 
once 

In  one  full  throated  No  I Her  Highness 
comes. 

Enter  Mary. 

Alice.  How  deathly  pale  ! — a chair,  your 
Highness. 

[Bringing  one  to  the  Queen. 
Renard.  Madam, 

The  Council? 

Mary.  Ay  I My  Philip  is  all  mine. 

[Sinks  into  chair^  half  faintbig. 


ACT  11. 

SCENE  I.  — ALLINGTON  CASTLE. 


Sir  Thomas  JVyatt.  I do  not  hear  from 
Carew  or  the  Duke 

Of  Suffolk,  and  till  then  I should  not  move. 
The  Duke  hath  gone  to  Leicester  ; Carew 
stirs 

In  Devon  : that  fine  porcelain  Courtenay, 
Save  that  he  fears  he  might  be  crack’d  in 
using, 

(I  have  known  a semi-madman  in  my  time 
So  fancy-ridd’n)  should  be  in  Devon  too. 

Enter  William. 

News  abroad,  William? 

William.  None  so  new,  Sir  Thomas,  and 
none  so  old,  Sir  Thomas.  No  new  news 
that  Philip  comes  to  wed  Mary,  no  old  news 
that  all  men  hate  it.  Old  Sir  Thomas  would 


i 


QUEEN  MARY,  343 


have  hated  it.  The  bells  are  ringing  at 
Maidstone.  Doesn’t  your  worship  hear? 
IVyatt.  Ay,  for  the  Saints  are  come  to 
reign  again. 

Most  like  it  is  a Saint’s-day.  There ’s  no  call 
As  yet  for  me  ; so  in  this  pause,  before 
The  mine  be  fired,  it  were  a pious  work 
To  string  my  father’s  sonnets,  left  about 
Like  loosely-scatter’d  jewels,  in  fair  order. 
And  head  them  with  a lamer  rhyme  of  mine, 
To  grace  his  memory. 

IVilliam.  Ay,  why  not.  Sir  Thomas?  He 
was  a fine  courtier,  he  ; Queen  Anne  loved 
him.  All  the  women  loved  him.  I loved 
him,  I was  in  Spain  with  him.  I could  n’t 
eat  in  Spain,  I couldn’t  sleep  in  Spain.  I 
hate  Spain,  Sir  Thomas. 

IVyatt.  But  thou  couldst  drink  in  Spain 
if  I remember. 

William.  Sir  Thomas,  w'e  may  grant  the 
wine.  Old  Sir  Thomas  always  granted  the 
wine. 

Wyatt.  Hand  me  the  casket  with  my  fa- 
ther’s sonnets. 

William.  Ay  — sonnets  — a fine  courtier 
of  the  old  Court,  old  Sir  Thomas.  \_Exit. 
Wyatt.  Courtier  of  many  courts,  he  loved 
the  more 

His  own  gray  towers,  plain  life  and  letter’d 
peace. 

To  read  and  rhyme  in  solitary  fields. 

The  lark  above,  the  nightingale  below. 

And  answer  them  in  song.  The  Sire  begets 
Not  half  his  likeness  in  the  son.  I fail 
Where  he  was  fullest:  yet  — to  write  it  down. 

[He  writes. 

Re-enter  William. 

William.  There  is  news,  there  is  news, 
and  no  call  for  sonnet-sorting  now,  nor  for 
sonnet-making  either,  but  ten  thousand  men 
on  Penenden  Heath  all  calling  after  your 
worship,  and  your  worship’s  name  heard 
into  Maidstone  market,  and  your  worship 
the  first  man  in  Kent  and  Christendom,  for 
the  world ’s  up,  and  your  worship  a-top  of  it. 
Wyatt.  Inverted  iKsop  — mountain  out 
of  mouse. 

Say  for  ten  thousand  ten  — and  pothouse 
knaves, 

Brain-dizzied  with  a draught  of  morning  ale. 
Enter  Antony  Knyvett. 
William.  Here ’s  Antony  Knyvett. 
Knyvett.  Look  you,  Master  Wyatt, 

Tear  up  that  woman’s  work  there. 

Wyatt.  No  ; not  these. 

Dumb  children  of  my  father,  that  will  speak 
When  I and  thou  and  all  rebellions  lie 
Dead  bodies  without  voice.  Song  flies  you 
know 
For  ages. 

Knyvett.  Tut,  your  sonnet’s  a flying  ant, 
Wing’d  for  a moment. 

Wyatt.  Well,  for  mine  own  work, 

[Tearing  the  paper. 
It  lies  there  in  six  pieces  at  your  feet ; 

For  all  that  I can  carry  it  in  my  head. 


Knyvett.  If  you  can  carry  your  head  upon 
your  shoulders. 

Wyatt.  I fear  you  come  to  carry  it  off  my 
shoulders, 

And  sonnet-making ’s  safer. 

Knyvett.  Why,  good  Lord, 

Write  you  as  many  sonnets  as  you  will. 

Ay,  but  not  now  ; what,  have  you  eyes,  ears, 
brains  ? 

This  Philip  and  the  black-faced  swarms  of 
Spain, 

The  hardest,  cruellest  people  in  the  world. 
Come  locusting  upon  us,  eat  us  up, 
Confiscate  lands,  goods,  money  — W3  att, 
Wyatt, 

Wake,  or  the  stout  old  island  wdll  become 
A rotten  limb  of  Spain.  They  roar  for  you 
On  Penenden  Heath,  a thousand  of  them  — 
more  — 

All  arm’d,  waiting  a leader  ; there ’s  no  glory 
Like  his  who  saves  his  country  : and  you  sit 
Sing-songing  here  ; but,  if  I ’m  any  judge. 

By  God,  you  are  as  poor  a poet,  Wyatt, 

As  a good  soldier. 

Wyatt.  You  as  poor  a critic 

As  an  honest  friend  : you  stroke  me  on  one 
cheek. 

Buffet  the  other.  Come,  you  bluster,  An- 
tony ! 

You  know  I know  all  this.  I must  not  move 
Until  1 hear  from  Carew  and  the  Duke. 

I fear  the  mine  is  fired  before  the  time. 
Knyvett  {showing  a paper').  But  here’s 
some  Hebrew.  Faith,  I half  forgot  it. 
Look  ; can  you  make  it  English  ? A strange 
youth 

Suddenly  thrust  it  on  me,  whisper’d, 
“Wyatt,” 

And  whisking  round  a corner,  show’d  his 
back 

Before  I read  his  face. 

Wyatt.  Ha  ! Courtenay’s  cipher.  [Reads. 
“Sir  Peter  Carew  fled  to  France:  it  is 
thought  the  Duke  will  be  taken.  I am  with 
you  still ; but,  for  appearance’  sake,  stay 
with  the  Queen.  Gardiner  knows,  but  the 
Council  are  all  at  odds,  and  the  Queen  hath 
no  force  for  resistance.  Move,  if  you  move, 
at  once.” 

Is  Peter  Carew  fled?  Is  the  Duke  taken  ? 
Down  scabbard,  and  out  sword ! and  let 
Rebellion 

Roar  till  throne  rock,  and  crown  fall.  No; 
not  that ; 

But  we  will  teach  Queen  Mary  how  to  reign. 
Who  are  those  that  shout  below'  there  ? 

Knyvett.  Why,  some  fifty 

That  follow’d  me  from  Penenden  Heath  in 
hope 

To  hear  you  speak. 

Wyatt.  Open  the  window,  Knyvett . 

The  mine  is  fired,  and  I will  speak  to  them’ 
Men  of  Kent ; England  of  England  ; you 
that  have  kept  your  old  customs  upright, 
w'hile  all  the  rest  of  England  bow’d  theirs 
to  the  Norman,  the  cause  that  hath  brought 


344 


QUEEN  MARY. 


us  together  is  not  the  cause  of  a county  or 
a shire,  but  of  this  England,  in  whose  crown 
our  Kent  is  the  fairest  jewel.  Philip  shall 
not  wed  Mary ; and  ye  have  called  me  to  be 
your  leader.  1 know  Spain.  I have  been 
therewith  my  father;  I have  seen  them  in 
their  own  land  ; have  marked  the  haughti- 
ness of  their  nobles;  the  cruelty  of  their 
priests.  If  this  man  marry  our  Queen,  how- 
ever the  Council  and  the  Comrnons  may 
fence  round  his  power  with  restriction,  he 
will  be  King,  King  of  England,  my  masters  ; 
and  the  Queen,  and  the  laws,  and  the  peo- 
ple, his  slaves.  What?  shall  we  have  Spain 
on  the  throne  and  in  the  parliament ; Spain 
in  the  pulpit  and  on  the  law-bench  ; Spain  in 
all  the  great  offices  of  state  ; Spain  in  our 
ships,  in  our  forts,  in  our  houses,  in  our  beds  . 

Crowd.  No  ! no  ! no  Spain. 

William.  No  Spain  in  our  beds  — that 
were  worse  than  all.  I have  been  there 
with  old  Sir  Thomas,  and  the  beds  1 know. 

1 hate  Spain. 

A Peasant.  But,  Sir  Thomas,  must  we 
levy  war  against  the  Queen’s  Grace? 

Wyatt.  No,  my  friend ; war  for  the 
Queen’s  Grace  — to  save  her  from  herself 
and  Philip  — war  against  Spain.  And  think 
not  we  shall  be  alone  — thousands  will  flock 
to  us.  The  Council,  the  Court  itself,  is  on 
our  side.  The  Lord  Chancellor  himself  is 
on  our  side.  The  King  of  France  is  with 
us;  the  King  of  Denmark  is  with  us;  the 
world  is  with  us  — war  against  Spain  ! And 
if  we  move  not  now,  yet  it  will  be  known 
that  we  have  moved  ; and  if  Philip  come  to 
be  King,  O,  my  God ! the  rope,  the  rack,  the 
thumb  screw,  the  stake,  the  fire.  If  we  move 
not  now,  Spain  moves,  bribes  our  nobles  with 
her  gold,  and  creeps,  creeps  snake-like  about 
our  legs  till  we  cannot  move  at  all ; and  ye 
know,  my  masters,  that  wherever  Spain  hath 
ruled  she  hath  wither’d  all  beneath  her. 
Look  at  the  New  World  — a paradise  made 
hell ; the  red  man,  that  good  helpless  crea- 
ture, starved,  maim’d,  flogg’d,  flay’d,  burn’d, 
boil’d,  buried  alive,  worried  by  dogs  ; and 
here,  nearer  home,  the  Netherlands,  Sicily, 
Naples,  Lombardy.  I say  no  more  — only 
this,  their  lot  is  yours.  Forward  to  London 
w'ith  me  ! forward  to  London  ! If  ye  love 
your  liberties  or  your  skins,  forward  to  Lon- 
don ! 

Crowd.  Forward  to  London  ! A Wyatt ! 
a W.yatt  ! 

Wyatt.  But  first  to  Rochester,  to  take 
the  guns 

From  out  the  vessels  lying  in  the  river. 

Then  on. 

A Peasant.  Ay,  but  I fear  we  be  too  few. 
Sir  Thomas. 

Wyatt.  Not  many  yet.  The  world  as  yet, 
my  friend. 

Is  not  half-waked  ; but  every  parish  tower 
Shall  clang  and  clash  alarum  as  we  pass. 
And  pour  along  the  land,  and  swoll’n  and 
fed 


With  indraughts  and  side-currents,  in  full 
force 

Roll  upon  London. 

Crowd.  A Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! Forward  ! 
Knyvett.  Wyatt,  shall  we  proclaim  Eliz- 
abeth ? 

Wyatt.  I ’ll  think  upon  it,  Knyvett. 

Knyvett.  Or  Lady  Jane? 

Wyatt.  No,  poor  soul  ; no. 

Ah,  gray  old  castle  of  Allington,  green  field 
Beside  the  brimming  Medway,  it  may  chance 
That  I shall  never  look  upon  you  more. 

Knyvett.  Come,  now,  you  ’re  sonnetting 
again. 

Wyatt.  Not  I. 

I ’ll  have  my  head  set  higher  in  the  state  ; 

Or  — if  the  Lord  God  will  it  — on  the  stake. 

{_Exeunt. 

SCENE  IL  — GUILDHALL. 

Sir  Thomas  White  {The  Lord  Mayor), 

Lord  William  Howard,  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall,  Aldermen  and  Citizens. 

White.  I trust  the  Queen  comes  hither 
with  her  guards. 

Howard.  Ay,  all  in  arms. 

[^Several  oJF the  Citizens  move  hastily  out 
of  the  hall. 

Why  do  they  hurry  out  there  ? 

White.  My  Lord,  cut  out  the  rotten  from  ? 
your  apple,  n 

Your  apple  eats  the  better.  Let  them  go.  : 

They  go  like  those  old  Pharisees  in  John 
Convicted  by  their  conscience,  arrant  cow-  j 

ards, 

Or  tamperers  with  that  treason  out  of  Kent.  ^ 

When  will  her  Grace  be  here  ? j 

Howard.  In  some  few  minutes.  ; 

She  will  address  your  guilds  and  companies.  i 

I have  striven  in  vain  to  raise  a man  for  her.  | 

But  help  her  in  this  exigency,  make  j 

Your  city  loyal,  and  be  the  mightiest  man 
This  day  in  England.  . ^ 

White.  I am  Thomas  White.  J 

Few  things  have  fail’d  to  which  I set  my  will.  t 

I do  my  most  and  best. 

Howard.  You  know  that  after 

The  Captain  Brett,  who  went  with  your 
train  bands 

To  fight  with  Wyatt,  had  gone  over  to  him 
With  all  his  men,  the  Queen  in  that  distre.ss 
Sent  Cornwallis  and  Hastings  to  the  traitor. 
Feigning  to  treat  with  him  about  her  mar- 
riage — 

Know  too  what  Wyatt  said. 

White.  He ’d  sooner  be. 

While  this  same  marriage  question  was  be- 
ing argued. 

Trusted  than  trust  — the  scoundrel  — and 
demanded 

Possession  of  her  person  and  the  Tower. 

Howard.  And  four  of  her  poor  Council 
too,  my  Lord, 

As  hostages. 

White.  I know  it.  What  do  and  say 
Your  Council  at  this  hour? 


QUEEN  MARY, 


345 


Howard.  I will  trust  you. 

We  fling  ourselves  on  you,  my  Lord.  The 
Council, 

The  parliament  as  well,  are  troubled  waters ; 
And  yet  like  waters  of  the  fen  they  know 
not 

Which  way  to  flow.  All  hangs  on  her  address, 
And  upon  you.  Lord  Mayor. 

White.  How  look’d  the  city 

When  now  you  past  it  ? Quiet  ? 

Howard.  Like  our  Council, 

Your  city  is  divided.  As  we  past, 

Some  hail’d,  some  hiss’d  us.  There  were 
citizens 

Stood  each  before  his  shut-up  booth,  and 
look’d 

As  grim  and  grave  as  from  a funeral. 

And  here  a knot  of  ruffians  all  in  rags, 

With  execrating  execrable  eyes, 

Glared  at  the  citizen.  Here  was  a young 
mother. 

Her  face  on  flame,  her  red  hair  all  blown  back. 
She  shrilling  “Wyatt,”  while  the  boy  she  held 
Mimick’d  and  piped  her  “ Wyatt,”  as  red  as 
she 

In  hair  and  cheek  ; and  almost  elbowing  her. 
So  close  they  stood,  another,  mute  as  death. 
And  white  as  her  own  milk  ; her  babe  in  arms 
Had  felt  the  faltering  of  his  mother’s  heart. 
And  look’d  as  bloodless.  Here  a pious 
Catholic, 

Mumbling  and  mixing  up  in  his  scared 
prayers 

Heaven  and  earth’s  Maries  ; over  his  bow’d 
shoulder 

Scowl’d  that  world-hated  and  w'orld-hating 
beast, 

A haggard  Anabaptist.  Many  such  groups. 
The  names  of  Wyatt,  Elizabeth,  Courtenay, 
Nay  the  Queen’s  right  to  reign  — ’fore  God, 
the  rogues  — 

Were  freely  buzz’d  among  them.  So  I say 
Your  city  is  divided,  and  I fear 
One  scruple,  this  or  that  way,  of  success 
Would  turn  it  thither.  Wherefore  now  the 
Queen 

In  this  low  pulse  and  palsy  of  the  state. 

Bade  me  to  tell  you  that  she  counts  on  you 
And  on  myself  as  her  two  hands  ; on  you. 

In  your  own  city,  as  her  right,  my  Lord, 

For  you  are  loyal. 

White.  Am  I Thomas  White? 

One  word  before  she  comes.  Elizabeth  — 
Her  name  is  much  abused  among  these 
traitors. 

Where  is  she  ? She  is  loved  by  all  of  us. 

I scarce  have  heart  to  mingle  in  this  matter. 
If  she  should  be  mishandled? 

Howard.  No  ; she  shall  not. 

The  Queen  had  written  her  word  to  come 
to  court. 

Methought  I smelt  out  Renard  in  the  letter. 
And  fearing  for  her,  sent  a secret  missive. 
Which  told  her  to  be  sick.  Happily  or  not. 
It  found  her  sick  indeed. 

White.  God  send  her  well ; 

Here  comes  her  Royal  Grace. 


E7iter  Guards.,  Mary,  and  Gardiner.  Sir 
Thomas  White  leads  her  to  a raised  seat 
on  the  dais. 

White.  , the  Lord  Mayor,  and  these  our 
companies 

And  guilds  of  London,  gathered  here,beseech 
Your  Highness  to  accept  our  lowliest  thanks 
For  your  most  princely  presence  ; and  we 
pray 

That  we,  your  true  and  loyal  citizens. 

From  your  own  royal  lips,  at  once  may  know 
The  wherefore  of  this  coming,  and  so  learn 
Your  Royal  will,  and  do  it.  — 1,  Lord  Mayor 
Of  London,  and  our  Guilds  and  Companies. 
Mary.  In  mine  own  person  am  I come  to 
you. 

To  tell  you  what  indeed  ye  see  and  know, 
How  traitorously  these  rebels  out  of  Kent 
Have  made  strong  head  against  ourselves 
and  you. 

They  would  not  have  me  wed  the  Prince  of 
Spain  ; 

That  was  their  pretext  — so  they  spake  at 
first  — 

But  we  sent  divers  of  our  Council  to  them, 
And  by  their  answers  to  the  question  ask’d, 
It  doth  appear  this  marriage  is  the  least 
Of  all  their  quarrel. 

They  have  betrayed  the  treason  of  their 
hearts  : 

Seek  to  possess  our  person,  hold  our  Tower, 
Place  and  displace  our  councillors,  and  use 
Both  us  and  them  according  as  they  will. 
Now  what  am  I ye  know  right  well  — your 
Queen  ; 

To  whom,  when  I was  wedded  to  the  realm 
And  the  realm’s  laws  (the  spousal  ring 
whereof, 

Not  ever  to  be  laid  aside,  I wear 
Upon  this  finger),  ye  did  promise  full 
Allegiance  and  obedience  to  the  death. 

Ye  know  my  father  w^as  the  rightful  heir 
Of  England,  and  his  right  came  down  to  me. 
Corroborate  by  your  acts  of  Parliament : 
And  as  ye  were  most  loving  unto  him. 

So  doubtless  will  ye  show  yourselves  to  me. 
Wherefore,  ye  will  not  brook  that  any  one 
Should  seize  our  person,  occupy  our  state. 
More  specially  a traitor  so  presumptuous  ^ 
As  this  same  Wyatt,  who  hath  tamper’d  with 
A public  ignorance,  and,  under  color 
Of  such  a cause  as  hath  no  color,  seeks 
To  bend  the  laws  to  his  own  will,  and  yield 
Full  scope  to  persons  rascal  and  forlorn. 

To  make  free  spoil  and  havoc  of  your  goods. 
Now  as  your  Prince,  I say, 

I,  that  was  never  mother,  cannot  tell 
How  mothers  love  their  children  ; yet,  me- 
thinks, 

A prince  as  naturally  may  love  his  people 
As  these  their  children  ; and  be  sure  your 
Queen 

So  loves  you,  and  so  loving,  needs  must  deem 
This  love  by  you  return’d  as  heartily  ; 

And  thro’  this  common  knot  and  bond  of  love. 
Doubt  not  they  will  be  speedily  overthrown. 
As  to  this  marriage,  ye  shall  understand 


346 


QUEEN  MARY. 


We  made  thereto  no  treaty  of  ourselves, 

And  set  no  foot  theretoward  unadvised 
Ot  all  our  Privy  Council  ; furthermore, 

This  marriage  had  the  assent  of  tli#se  to  whom 
'i'he  king,  my  father,  did  commit  his  trust; 
\v  ho  not  alone  esteem’d  it  honorable. 

But  for  the  wealth  and  glory  of  our  realm. 
And  all  our  loving  subjects,  most  expedient. 
As  to  myself, 

1 am  not  so  set  on  wedlock  as  to  choose 
But  where  I list,  nor  yet  so  amorous 
That  I must  needs  be  husbanded  ; I thank 
God, 

I have  lived  a virgin,  and  I noway  doubt 
But  that  with  God’s  grace,  I can  live  so  still. 
Yet  if  it  might  please  God  that  1 should  leave 
Some  fruit  of  mine  own  body  alter  me. 

To  be  your  king,  ye  would  rejoice  thereat, 
And  it  would  be  your  comfort,  as  I trust  ; 
And  truly,  if  1 either  thought  or  knew 
This  marriage  should  bring  loss  or  danger  to 
you. 

My  subjects,  or  impair  in  any  way 
This  royal  state  of  England,  I would  never 
Consent  thereto,  nor  marry  while  1 live  ; 
Moreover,  if  this  marriage  should  not  seem, 
Before  our  own  high  Court  of  Parliament, 
To  be  of  rich  advantage  to  our  realm. 

We  will  refrain,  and  not  alone  from  this. 
Likewise  from  any  other,  out  of  which 
Looms  the  least  chance  of  peiil  to  our  realm. 
Wherefore  be  bold,  and  with  your  lawful 
Prince 

Stand  fast  against  our  enemies  and  yours. 
And  fear  them  not.  I fear  them  not.  My 
Lord, 

I leave  Lord  William  Howard  in  your  city. 
To  guard  and  keep  you  whole  and  safe  from 
all 

The  spoil  and  sackage  aim’d  at  by  these 
rebels, 

Who  mouth  and  foam  against  the  Prince  of 
Spain. 

Voices.  Long  live  Queen  Mary  ! 

Down  with  Wyatt  ! 

The  Queen  ! 

White.  Three  voices  from  our  guilds  and 
companies  ! 

You  are  shy  and  proud  like  Englishmen,  my 
masters. 

And  will  not  trust  your  voices.  Understand  : 
Your  lawful  Prince  hath  come  to  cast  her- 
self 

On  loyal  hearts  and  bosoms,  hoped  to  fall 
Into  the  wide-spread  arms  of  fealty, 

And  finds  you  statues.  Speak  at  once  — 
and  all  ! 

For  whom  ? 

Our  sovereign  Lady  by  King  Harry’s  will  ; 
The  Queen  of  England  — or  the  Kentish 
Squire? 

I know  you  loyal.  Speak ! in  the  name  of 
God  ! 

The  Queen  of  England  or  the  rabble  of  Kent  ? 
The  reeking  dungfork  master  of  the  mace  ! 
Your  havings  wasted  by  the  scythe  and 
spade  — 


Your  rights  and  charters  hobnail’d  into 
slush  — 

Your  houses  fired  — your  gutters  bubbling 
blood  — 

Acclamation.  No!  No  I The  Queen! 
the  Queen  ! 

White.  Your  Highness  hears 

This  burst  and  bass  of  loyal  harmony. 

And  how  w e each  and  all  of  us  abhor 
The  venomous,  bestial,  devilish  revolt 
Of  Thomas  Wyatt.  Hear  us  now  make  oath 
To  raise  your  Highness  thirty  thousand  men. 
And  arm  and  strike  as  wdth  one  hand,  and 
brush 

This  Wyatt  from  our  shoulders,  like  a flea 
That  might  have  leapt  upon  us  unaw^ares. 
Swear  with  me,  noble  fellow-citizens,  all, 
With  all  your  trades,  and  guilds,  and  com- 
panies.. 

Citizens.  We  swear! 

Mary.  We  thank  your  Lordship  and  your 
loyal  city.  \Exit  Mary  attended. 

White.  I trust  this  day,  thro’  God,  1 have 
saved  the  crown. 

First  Alderman.  Ay,  so  my  Lord  of 
Pembroke  in  command 
Of  all  her  force  be  safe  ; but  there  are  doubts. 

Second  Alderman.  I hear  that  Gardiner, 
coming  with  the  Queen, 

And  meeting  Pembroke,  bent  to  his  .saddle- 
bow'. 

As  if  to  win  the  man  by  flattering  him. 

Is  he  so  safe  to  fight  upon  her  side  ? 

First  Alderman.  If  not,  there ’s  no  man 
safe. 

White.  Yes,  Thomas  White. 

I am  safe  enough  ; no  man  need  flatter  me. 

Second Alderma7i.  Nay,  no  man  need; 
but  did  you  mark  our  Queen  ? 

The  color  freely  play’d  into  her  face. 

And  the  half  sight  w'hich  makes  her  look  so 
stern. 

Seem’d  thro’  that  dim  dilated  w’orld  of  hers. 
To  read  our  faces  ; I have  never  seen  her 
So  queenly  or  so  goodly. 

White.  Courage,  sir. 

That  makes  or  man  or  woman  look  their 
goodliest. 

Die  like  the  torn  fox  dumb,  but  never  whine 
Like  that  poor  heart,  Northumberland,  at 
the  block. 

Bagenhall.  The  man  had  children,  and 
he  whined  for  those. 

Methinks  most  men  are  but  poor-hearted. 


i 


{ 


i 


else 

Should  we  so  doat  on  courage,  w’ere  it  com- 
moner? 

The  Queen  stands  up,  and  speaks  for  her 
own  self ; 

And  all  men  cry,  she  is  queenly,  she  is 
goodly. 

Yet  she ’s  no  goodlier  ; tho’  my  Lord  Mayor 
here. 

By  his  own  rule,  he  hath  been  so  bold  to-day, 

Should  look  more  goodly  than  the  rest  ol  us. 

White.  Goodly  ? I feel  most  goodly  heart 
and  hand. 


QUEEN  MARY.  347 


And  strong  to  throw  ten  Wyatts  and  all  Kent. 
Ha  ! ha  ! sir  ; but  you  jest ; I love  it : a jest 
In  time  of  danger  shows  the  pulses  even. 

Be  merry  ! yet,  Sir  Ralph,  you  look  but  sad. 
I dare  avouch  you ’d  stand  up  for  yourself, 
Tho’  all  the  world  should  bay  like  winter 
wolves. 

Bagetihall.  Who  knows  ? the  man  is  proven 
by  the  hour. 

White.  The  man  should  make  the  hour, 
not  this  the  man  : 

And  Thomas  White  will  prove  this  Thomas 
Wyatt, 

And  he  will  prove  an  Iden  to  this  Cade, 
And  he  will  play  the  Walworth  to  this  Wat ; 
Come,  sirs,  we  prate  ; hence  all  — gather 
your  men  — ■ 

Myself  must  bustle.  Wyatt  comes  to  South- 
wark ; 

I ’ll  have  the  drawbridge  hewn  into  the 
Thames, 

And  see  the  citizen  arm’d.  Good  day  ; 
good  day.  [Exit  White. 

Bagenhall.  One  of  much  outdoor  bluster. 

Howard.  ^ For  all  that. 

Most  honest,  brave,  and  skilful ; and  his 
wealth 

A fountain  of  perennial  alms  — his  fault 
So  thoroughly  to  believe  in  his  own  self. 

Bagenhall-  Yet  thoroughly  to  believe  in 
one’s  own  self. 

So  one’s  own  self  be  thorough,  were  to  do 
Great  things,  my  lord. 

Howard.  It  may  be. 

Bagejihall.  I have  heard 

One  of  your  council  fleer  and  jeer  at  him. 

Howard.  The  nursery-cocker’d  child  will 
jeer  at  aught 

That  may  seem  strange  beyond  his  nursery. 
The  statesman  that  shall  jeer  and  fleer  at 
men. 

Makes  enemies  for  himself  and  for  his  king  ; 
And  if  he  jeer  not  seeing  the  true  man 
Behind  his  folly,  he  is  thrice  the  fool ; 

And  if  he  see  the  man  and  still  will  jeer. 

He  is  child  and  fool,  and  traitor  to  the  State. 
Who  is  he?  Let  me  shun  him. 

Bagenhall.  ‘ Nay,  my  Lord, 

He  is  damn’d  enough  already. 

Howard.  I must  set 

The  guard  at  Ludgate.  Fare  you  well.  Sir 
Ralph. 

Bagenhall.  “Who  knows?”  I am  for 
England.  But  who  knows. 

That  knows  the  Queen,  the  Spaniard,  and 
the  Pope, 

Whether  I be  for  Wyatt,  or  the  Queen? 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — LONDON  B^lTDGE. 
Enter  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  Brett. 

Wyatt.  Brett,  when  the  Duke  of  Norfolk 
moved  against  us 

Thou  criedst  “ a Wyatt,”  and  flying  to  our 
side  * 

Left  his  all  bare,  for  which  I love  thee,  Brett. 


Have  for  thine  asking  aught  that  I can  give, 
For  thro’  thine  help  we  are  come  to  London 
Bridge  ; 

But  how  to  cross  it  balks  me.  I fear  we  can- 
not. 

Brett.  Nay,  hardly,  save  by  boat,  swim- 
ming, or  wings. 

Wyatt.  Last  night  I climb’d  into  the 
gate-house,  Brett, 

And  scared  the  gray  old  porter  and  his  wife. 
And  then  I crept  along  the  gloom  and  saw 
They  had  hewn  the  drawbridge  down  into 
the  river. 

It  roll’d  as  black  as  death  ; and  that  same 
tide 

Which,  coming  with  our  coming,  seem’d  to 
smile 

And  sparkle  like  our  fortune  as  thou  saidest, 
Ran  sunless  down,  and  moan’d  against  the 
piers. 

But  o’er  the  chasm  I saw  Lord  William 
Howard 

By  torchlight,  and  his  guard  ; four  guns 
gaped  at  me. 

Black,  silent  mouths : had  Howard  spied 
me  there 

And  made  them  speak,  as  well  he  might 
have  done, 

Their  voice  had  left  me  none  to  tell  you  this. 
What  shall  we  do? 

Brett.  On  somehow.  To  go  back 

Were  to  lose  all. 

Wyatt.  On  over  London  Bridge 

We  cannot : stay  we  cannot;  there  is  ord- 
nance 

On  the  White  Tower  and  on  the  Devil's 
Tower, 

And  pointed  full  at  Southwark  ; we  must 
round 

By  Kingston  Bridge. 

Brett.  Ten  miles  about. 

Wyatt.  Ev’n  so. 

But  I have  notice  from  our  partisans 
Within  the  city  that  they  will  stand  by  us 
If  Ludgate  can  be  reach’d  by  dawn  to- 
morrow. 

Ejtter  one  ^Wyatt’s  men. 

Man.  Sir  Thomas,  I ’ve  found  this  paper, 
pray  your  worship  read  it  ; I know  not  my 
letters  ; the  old  priests  taught  me  nothing. 

Wyatt  {reads).  “ Whosoever  will  appre- 
hend the  traitor  Thomas  Wyatt  shall  have  a 
hundred  pounds  for  reward.” 

Ma7i.  Is  that  it  ? That ’s  a big  lot  of 
money. 

Wyatt.  Ay,  ay,  my  friend  ; not  read  it  ? 
’t  is  not  written 

Half  plain  enough.  Give  me  a piece  of 
paper ! 

[Writes  “Thomas  Wyatt”  large. 
There,  any  man  can  read  that. 

[Sticks  it  in  his  cap. 

Brett.  But  that ’s  foolhardy. 

Wyatt.  No  ! boldness,  which  will  give  my 
followers  boldness. 

Enter  Man  with  a prisoner. 


/. 


348 


T 

QUEEN  MARY. 


Man-  We  found  him,  your  worship,  a 
plundering  o’  Bishop  Winchester’s  house; 
he  says  he ’s  a poor  gentleman. 

IVyati.  Gentleman,  a thief!  Go  hang 
him.  Shall  we  make 

Those  that  we  come  to  serve  our  sharpest 
foes  ? 

Brett.  Sir  Thomas  — 

IVyatt.  Hang  him,  I say. 

Brett.  Wyatt,  but  now  you  promised  me 
a boon. 

Wyatt.  Ay,  and  I warrant  this  fine  fel- 
low’s life. 

Brett.  Ev’n  so  ; he  was  my  neighbor 
once  in  Kent. 

He ’s  poor  enough,  has  drunk  and  gambled 
out 

All  that  he  had,  and  gentleman  he  was. 

We  have  been  glad  together  ; let  him  live. 
Wyatt.  He  has  gambled  for  his  life,  and 
lost,  he  hangs. 

No,  no,  my  word ’s  my  word.  Take  thy 
poor  gentleman  I 

Gamble  thyself  at  once  out  of  my  sight. 

Or  1 will  dig  thee  with  my  dagger.  Away ! 
Women  and  children  ! 

Enter  a Crowd  Women  and  Children. 

First  Woman.  O Sir  Thomas,  Sir  Thom- 
as, pray  you  go  away.  Sir  Thomas,  or  you  ’ll 
make  the  White  Tower  a black  ’un  for  us 
this  blessed  day.  He  ’ll  be  the  death  on  us  ; 
and  you  ’fl  set  the  Devil’s  Tower  a-spitting, 
and  he  ’ll  smash  all  our  bits  o’  things  worse 
than  Philip  o’  Spain. 

Second  Woman.  Don’t  ye  now  go  to 
think  that  we  be  for  Philip  o’  Spain. 

Third  Woman.  No,  we  know  that  ye  be 
come  to  kill  the  Queen,  and  we  ’ll  pray  for 
you  all  on  our  bended  knees.  But  o’  God’s 
mercy  don’t  ye  kill  the  Queen  here.  Sir 
Thomas  ; look  ye,  here ’s  little  Dickon,  and 
little  Robin,  and  little  Jenny  — though  she ’s 
but  a side-cousin  — and  all  on  our  knees,  vve 
pray  you  to  kill  the  Queen  farther  off.  Sir 
Thomas. 

Wyatt.  My  friends,  I have  not  come  to 
kill  the  Queen 

Or  here  or  there  : I come  to  save  you  all, 
And  I ’ll  go  farther  off. 

Crowd.  Thanks,  Sir  Thomas,  we  be  be- 
holden to  you,  and  we  ’ll  pray  for  you  on 
our  bended  knees  till  our  lives’  end. 

Wyatt.  Be  happy,  I am  your  friend. 

To  Kingston,  forward  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — ROOM  IN  THE  GATE- 
HOUSE OF  WESTMINSTER  PAL- 
ACE. 

Mary,  Alice,  Gardiner,  Renard,  La- 
dies. 

Alice.  O madam,  if  Lord  Pembroke  should 
be  false? 

Mary.  No,  girl ; most  brave  and  loyal, 
brave  and  loyal. 

His  breaking  with  Northumberland  broke 
Northumberland. 


At  the  park  gate  ue  hovers  with  our  guards. 

These  Kentish  ploughmen  cannot  break  the 
guards. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Messenger.  Wyatt,  your  Grace,  hath 
broken  thro’  the  guards 
And  gone  to  Ludgate. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  I much  fear 

That  all  is  lost ; but  we  can  save  your  Grace. 

The  river  still  is  free.  I do  beseech  you. 

There  yet  is  time,  take  boat  and  pass  to 
Windsor. 

Mary.  I pass  to  Windsor  and  I lose  my 
crown. 

Gardiner.  Pass,  then,  I pray  your  High- 
ness, to  the  Tower. 

Mary.  1 shall  but  be  their  prisoner  in  the  » 
Tower. 

Cries  (without).  The  traitor  ! treason  ! 

Pembroke  1 ‘ 

Ladies.  Treason  ! treason  I 

Mary.  Peace.  < 

False  to  Northumberland,  is  he  false  to  me?  ; 

Bear  w'itness,  Renard,  that  I live  and  die  j 

The  true  and  faithful  bride  of  Philip  — A , 

sound  ‘ 

Of  feet  and  voices  thickening  hither  — 

blows  — \ 

Hark,  there  is  battle  at  the  palace  gates,  ■ 

And  I will  out  upon  the  gallery. 

Ladies.  No,  no,  your  Grace ; see  there  ^ 

the  arrows  flying. 

Mary.  1 am  Harry’s  daughter,  Tudor, 
and  not  fear. 

[Goes  out  on  the  gallery. 

The  guards  are  all  driven  in,  skulk  into  cor-  ' 

ners  . j 

Like  rabbits  to  their  holes.  A gracious 

guard  \ 

Truly  ; shame  on  them,  they  have  shut  the  ; 

gates  ! i 

Enter  Sir  Robert  Southwell. 

Southwell.  The  porter,  please  your  Grace,  ■ 

hath  shtit  the  gates 

On  friend  and  foe.  Your  gentlemen-at-arms,  | 

If  this  be  not  your  Grace’s  order,  cry 
To  have  the  gates  set  w'ide  again,  and  they 
With  their  good  battle-axes  will  do  you 
right 

Against  all  traitors. 

Mary.  They  are  the  flower  of  England  ; 
set  the  gates  wide. 

[Exit  Southwell. 

Enter  Courtenay. 

Courtenay.  All  lost,  all  lost,  all  yielded  ; 
a barge,  a barge. 

The  Queen  must  to  the  Tower. 

Mary.  • Whence  come  you,  sir? 

Courtenay.  From  Charing  Cross  ; the 
rebels  broke  us  there, 

And  I sped  hither  with  what  haste  I might 
To  save  my  royal  cousin. 

Mary.  . Where  is  Pembroke  ? 

Courtenay.  I left  him  somewhere  in  the 
thick  of  it. 


i 

QUEE. 

Mary.  Left  him  and  fled  ; and  thou  that 
wouldst  be  King, 

And  hast  nor  heart  nor  honor.  I myself 
Will  down  into  the  battle  and  there  bide 
The  upshot  of  my  quarrel,  or  die  with  those 
That  are  no  cowards  and  no  Courtenays. 
Courtenay.  I do  not  love  your  Grace 
should  call  me  coward. 

Enter  another  Messenger. 
Messenger,  Over,  your  Grace,  all  crush’d  ; 
the  brave  Lord  William 

Thrust  him  from  Ludgate,  and  the  traitor 
flying 

To  Temple  Bar,  there  by  Sir  Maurice  Berke- 
ley 

Was  taken  prisoner. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him 

Messenger.  ’T  is  said  he  told  Sir  Maurice 
there  was  one 

Cognizant  of  this,  and  party  thereunto, 

My  Lord  of  Devon. 

Mary.  To  the  Tower  with  him  ! 

Co7irtenay.  O la,  the  Tower,  the  Tower, 
always  the  Tower, 

I shall  grow  into  it  — I shall  be  the  Tower. 
Mary.  Your  Lordship  may  not  have  so 
long  to  wait. 

Remove  him  ! 

Courtenay.  I.a,  to  whistle  out  my  life, 
And  carve  my  coat  upon  the  walls  again  ! 

[ Exit  Courtenay  guarded. 
Messenger.  Also  this  Wyatt  did  confess 
the  Princess 

Cognizant  thereof,  and  party  thereunto. 
Mary.  What  ? whom  — whom  did  you 
say  ? 

Messenger.  Elizabeth, 

Your  Royal  sister. 

Mary.  'Pq  Tower  with  herl 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet  and  I am  Queen. 
TGardiner  and  her  Ladies  kneel  to  her. 
Gardiner  (rising).  There  let  them  lie, 
your  footstool ! (/I side.)  Can  I strike 
Elizabeth  ? — not  now  and  save  the  life 

Of  Devon  : if  I save  him,  he  and  his 

Are  bound  to  me — may  strike  hereafter. 
{/I  loud.)  Madam, 

What  Wyatt  said,  or  what  they  said  he 
said. 

Cries  of  the  moment  and  the  street  — 

Mary.  fj0  saJ(3 

Gardiner.  Your  courts  of  justice  will  de- 
termine that. 

Renard  (advancing).  I trust  by  this 
your  Highness  will  allow 

Some  spice  of  wisdom  in  my  telling  you. 
When  last  we  talk’d,  that  Philip  would  not 
come 

Till  Guildford  Dudley  and  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk 

And  Lady  Jane  had  left  us. 

^^ry.  They  shall  die. 

Kenard.  And  your  so  loving  sister  ? 

Mary.  She  shall  die. 

My  foes  are  at  my  feet,  and  Philip  King. 

(Exeunt.  | 

V MAR V.  349 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  L— THE  CONDUIT  IN 
GRACE-CHURCH, 

Painted  with  the  Nine  Worthies,  among 
them  King  Henry  VIII.  holding  a book, 
on  tt  inscribed  "'‘Verbum  Dei.'' 

Enter  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  and  Sir 
Thomas  Stafford. 

Bagenhall.  A hundred,  here  and  hun- 
dreds hang’d  in  Kent. 

The  tigress  had  unsheath’d  her  nails  at  last 
And  Renard  and  the  Chancellor  sharpen’d 
them. 

In  every  London  street  a gibbet  stood. 

They  are  down  to-day.  Heie  by  this  house 
was  one ; 

The  traitor  husband  dangled  at  the  door, 

And  wh6n  the  traitor  wifo  came  out  for 
bread 

To  still  the  petty  treason  therewithin. 

Her  cap  would  brush  his  heels. 

Stafford.  It  is  Sir  Ralph, 

And  muttering  to  himself  as  heretofore. 

Sir,  see  you  aught  up  yonder? 

Bagenhall.  I miss  something. 

1 he  tree  that  only  bears  dead  fruit  is  gone. 
Stafford.  What  tree,  sir  ? 

Bagenhall.  Well,  the  tree  in  Virgil,  sir, 
lhat  bears  not  its  own  apples. 

Stafford.  What ! the  gallows  ? 

Bagenhall.  Sir,  this  dead  fruit  w^as  ripen- 
ing overmuch. 

And  had  to  be  removed  lest  living  Spain 
Should  sicken  at  dead  England. 

Stafford.  Not  so  dead, 

But  that  a shock  may  rouse  her. 

Bagenhall.  j believe 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford? 

Stafford.  I am  ill  disguised. 

Bagenhall.  Well,  are  you  not  in  peril 
here  ? 

Stafford.  I think  so. 

I came  to  feel  the  pulse  of  England,  whether 

It  beats  hard  at  this  marriage.  Did  you 
see  it? 

Bagenhall.  Stafford,  I am  a sad  man  and 
a serious. 

Far  liefer  had  I in  my  country  hall 

Been  reading  some  old  book,  with  mine  old 
hound 

Couch’d  at  my  hearth,  and  mine  old  flask  of 
w'ine 

Beside  me,  than  have  seen  it,  yet  I saw  it. 
Stafford.  Good,  was  it  splendid  ? 
Bagenhall.  Ay,  if  Dukes,  and  Earls, 

And  Counts,  and  sixty  Spanish  cavaliers. 

Some  six  or  seven  Bishops,  diamonds, 
pearls. 

That  royal  commonplace  too,  cloth  of  gold. 
Could  make  it  so. 

Stafford.  And  what  w'as  Mary’s  dre.ss  ? 
Bagenhall.  Good  faith,  I was  too  sorry  for 
the  woman 

To  mark  the  dress.  She  wore  red  shoes  I 

* 

/ 


QUEEN  MARY. 


350 

Strifford.  Red  shoes  ! 

Bagenhall.  Scarlet,  as  if  her  feet  were 
wash’d  in  blood, 

As  if  she  had  waded  in  it. 

Stafford.  Were  your  eyes 

So  bashful  that  you  look’d  no  higher  ? 

Bagenhall.  A diamond, 

And  Philip’s  gift,  as  proof  of  Philip’s  love. 
Who  hath  not  any  for  any,  — iho’  a true  one, 
Blazed  false  upon  her  heart. 

Stafford.  Fut  this  proud  Prince  — 

Bagetihall.  Nay,  he  is  King,  you  know, 
the  King  of  Naples. 

The  father  ceded  Naples,  that  the  son 
Being  a King,  might  wed  a Queen  — O he 
Flamed  in  brocade  — white  satin  his  trunk 
hose,  , . , , 

Inwrought  with  silver,  — on  his  neck  a col- 
lar,  . 

Gold,  thick  with  diamonds  ; hanging  down 
from  this 

The  Golden  Fleece— and  round  his  knee, 
misplaced. 

Our  English  Garter,  studded  with  great  em- 
eralds. 

Rubies,  I know  not  what.  Have  you  had 
enough 

Of  all  this  gear?  ^ 

Stafford.  Ay,  since  you  hate  the  telling  it. 
How  look’d  the  Queen? 

Bagenhall.  N o fairer  for  her  jewels. 

And  I could  see  that  as  the  new-made  couple 
Came  from  the  Minster,  moving  side  by  side 
Beneath  one  canopy,  ever  and  anon 
She  cast  on  him  a vassal  smile  of  love, 
Which  Philip  with  a glance  of  some  distaste. 
Or  so  methought,  return’d.  I may  be 
wrong,  sir. 

This  marriage  will  not  hold. 

Stafford.  I think  with  you. 

The  King  of  France  will  help  to  break  it. 

Bagenhall.  France  ! 

We  once  had  half  of  France,  and  hurl’d  our 
battles 

Into  the  heart  of  Spain  ; but  England  now 
Is  but  a ball  chuck’d  between  France  and 
Spain 

His  in  whose  hand  she  drops ; Harry  of 
Bolingbroke 

Had  holpen  Richard’s  tottering  throne  to 
stand, 

Could  Harry  have  foreseen  that  all  our  no- 
bles 

Would  perish  on  the  civil  slaughter-field. 
And  leave  the  people  naked  to  the  crown. 
And  the  crown  naked  to  the  people  ; the 
crown 

Female,  too  ! Sir,  no  woman’s  regimen  _ 
Can  save  us.  W e are  fallen,  and  as  I think. 
Never  to  rise  again. 

Stafford.  You  are  too  black-blooded. 
I ’d  make  a move  myself  to  hinder  that : 

1 know  some  lusty  fellows  there  in  France. 
Bagenhall.  You  would  but  make  us 
weaker,  Thomas  Stafford. 

Wyatt  was  a good  soldier,  yet  he  fail’d, 

And  strengthen’d  Philip. 


Stafford.  Did  not  his  last  breath 

Clear  Courtenay  and  the  Princess  from  the 
charge 

Of  being  his  co-rebels? 

Bagenhall.  Ay,  but  then 

What  sach  a one  as  Wyatt  says  is  nothing  : 
We  have  no  men  among  us.  The  new 
Lords 

Are  quieted  with  their  sop  of  Abbeylands, 
And  ev’n  before  the  Queen’s  face  Gardiner 
buys  them 

With  Philip’s  gold.  All  greed,  no  faith,  no 
courage  ! 

Why,  ev’n  the  haughty  prince,  Northumber- 
land, 

The  leader  of  our  Reformation,  knelt 
And  blubber’d  like  a lad,  and  on  the  scaffold 
Recanted,  and  resold  himself  to  Rome. 

Stafford.  I swear  you  do  your  country 
wrong.  Sir  Ralph. 

I know  a set  of  exiles  over  there, 

Dare-devils,  that  would  eat  fire  and  spit  it 
out 

At  Philip’s  beard  : they  pillage  Spam  al- 
ready. 

The  French  king  winks  at  it.  An  hour  will 
come 

When  they  will  sweep  her  from  the  seas. 
No  men? 

Did  not  Lord  Suffolk  die  like  a true  man  ? 

Is  not  Lord  William  Howard  a true  man? 
Yea,  you  yourself,  altho’  you  are  black- 
blooded  : 

And  I,  by  God,  believe  myself  a man. 

Ay,  even  in  the  church  there  is  a man  — 
Cranmer.  , , , • a 

Fly, would  he  not,  when  all  men  bade  him  tiy. 
And  what  a letter  he  wrote  against  the  Pope  ! 
There ’s  a brave  man,  if  any. 

Bagenhall.  Ay  ; if  it  hold. 

Crowd  {.coming  on).  God  save  their 
Graces ! 

Stafford.  Bagenhall,  I see 
The  Tudor  green  and  white.  {Trumpets.) 
They  are  coming  now. 

And  here ’s  a crowd  as  thick  as  herring- 
shoals. 

Bagenhall.  Be  limpets  to  this  pillar,  or 
we  are  torn 

Down  the  strong  wave  of  brawlers. 

Crowd.  God  save  their  Graces. 

[Procession  of  Trumpeters,  Javelin- 
men,  etc.',  then  Spanish  and  Flemish 
Nobles  intermingled. 

Stafford.  Worth  seeing,  Bagenhall  ! 
These  black  dog-Dons 
Garb  themselves  bravely.  Who ’s  the  long- 
face  there. 

Looks  very  Spain  of  very  Spam  ? 

Bagenhtll.  . The  Duke 

Of  Alva,  an  iron  soldier. 

Stafford.  And  the  Dutchman, 

Now  laughing  at  some  jest  ? 

Bagenhall.  William  of  Orange, 

William  the  Silent. 

Stafford.  Why  do  they  call  him  so  ? 


QUEEN 

Bagenhall.  He  keeps,  they  say,  some 
secret  that  may  cost 
Philip  his  life. 

Stafford.  But  then  he  looks  so  merry. 
Bagenhall.  I cannot  tell  you  why  they 
call  him  so. 

\^rhe  King  and  Queen  pass.,  attended 
by  Peers  of  the  Realm,  Officers  of 
State,  etc.  Cannon  shot  off. 

Crowd.  Philip  and  Mary, Philip  and  Mary. 
Long  live  the  King  and  Queen,  Philip  and 
Mary. 

Stafford.  They  smile  as  if  content  with 
one  another. 

Bagenhall.  A smile  abroad  is  oft  a scowl 
at  home. 

[King  and  Queen  pass  on.  Procession. 
First  Citizen.  I thought  this  Philip  had 
been  one  of  those  black  devils  of  Spain,  but 
he  hath  a yellow  beard. 

Second  Citizen.  Not  red  like  Iscariot’s. 
First  Citizen.  Like  a carrot’s,  as  thou 
sayst,  and  English  carrot ’s  better  than 
Spanish  licorice  ; but  I thought  he  was  a 
beast. 

Third  Citizen.  Certain  I had  heard  that 
every  Spaniard  carries  a tail  like  a devil  un- 
der his  trunk  hose. 

Tailor.  Ay,  but  see  what  trunk  hoses  ! 
Lord  ! they  be  fine  ; I never  stitch’d  none 
such.  They  make  amends  for  the  tails. 
Fourth  Citizen.  Tut  ! every  Spanish 
riest  will  tell  you  that  all  English  heretics 
ave  tails. 

Fifth  Citizen.  Death  and  the  Devil  — if 
he  find  I have  one  — 

Fourth  Citizen-  Lo  ! thou  hast  call’d 
them  up  ! here  they  come  — a pale  horse  for 
Death  and  Gardiner  for  the  Devil. 

Enter  Gardiner,  turning  hack  from  the 
procession. 

Gardiner.  Knave,  wilt  thou  wear  thy 
cap  before  the  Queen  ? 

Man.  My  Lord,  I stand  so  squeezed 
among  the  crowd 

I cannot  lift  my  hands  unto  my  head. 
Gardiner.  Knock  off  his  cap  there,  some 
of  you  about  him  ! 

See  there  be  others  that  can  use  their  hands. 
Thou  art  one  of  Wyatt’s  men  ? 

Man.  No,  my  Lord,  no. 

Gardiner.  Thy  name,  thou  knave  ! 

Man.  I am  nobody,  my  Lord, 

Gardiner  [shouting).  God’s  passion  ! 
knave,  thy  name  ? 

Man.  I have  ears  to  hear. 

Gardiner.  Ay,  rascal,  if  I leave  thee  ears 
to  hear. 

Find  out  his  name  and  bring  it  me  ipo  At- 
tendant). 

A ttendant.  Ay,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Knave,  thou  shalt  lose  thine 
ears  and  find  thy  tongue. 

And  shalt  be  thankful  if  I leave  thee  that. 

\Coming  before  the  Conduit. 


MARY,  351 

The  conduit  painted  — the  nine  worthies  — 
ay  ! 

But  then  what ’s  here  ? King  Harry  with  a 
scroll. 

Ha  — Verbum  Dei — verbum — word  of 
God  ! 

God’s  passion  ! do  you  know  the  knave  that 
painted  it  ? 

Attendant.  I do,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Tell  him  to  paint  it  out, 

And  put  some  fresh  device  in  lieu  of  it  — 

A pair  of  gloves,  a pair  of  gloves,  sir  ; ha  ? 
There  is  no  heresy  there. 

Attendant.  ^ I will,  my  Lord. 

The  man  shall  paint  a pair  of  gloves.  1 am 
sure 

(Knowing  the  man)  he  wrought  it  ignorantly, 
And  not  from  any  malice. 

Gardiner.  Word  of  God 

In  English  ! over  this  the  brainless  loons 
That  cannot  spell  Esaias  from  St.  Paul, 
Make  themselves  drunk  and  mad,  fly  out 
and  flare 

Into  rebellions.  I ’ll  have  their  Bibles 
burnt. 

The  Bible  is  the  priest’s.  Ay  ! fellow,  what ! 
Stand  staring  at  me  ! shout,  you  gaping 
rogue. 

Man.  1 have,  my  Lord,  shouted  till  I am 
hoarse. 

Gardiner.  What  hast  thou  shouted, 
knave  ? 

Man.  Long  live  Queen  Mary. 

Gardiner.  Knave,  there  be  two.  There 
be  both  King  and  Queen, 

Philip  and  Mary.  Shout. 

Man.  Nay,  but,  my  Lord, 

The  Queen  comes  first,  Mary  and  Philip. 

Gardiner.  Shout,  then, 

Mary  and  Philip. 

Man.  Mary  and  Philip  ! 

Gardiner.  Now, 

Thou  hast  shouted  for  thy  pleasure,  shout 
for  mine  ! 

Philip  and  Mary  ! 

Man.  • Must  it  be  so,  my  Lord  ? 

Gardiner.  Ay,  knave. 

Man.  Philip  and  Mary. 

Gardiner.  ^ I distrust  thee. 

Thine  is  a half  voice  and  a lean  assent. 
What  is  thy  name  ? 

Man.  Sanders. 

Gardiner.  What  else? 

Man.  Zerubbabel. 

Gardiner.  Where  dost  thou  live  ? 

Man.  In  Cornhill. 

Gardiner.  Where,  knave,  where? 

Man.  Sign  of  the  Talbot. 

Gardiner.  Come  to  me  to-morrow.  — 
Rascal  ! — this  land  is  like  a hill  of  fire. 

One  crater  opens  when  another  shuts. 

But  so  I get  the  laws  against  the  heretic. 
Spite  of  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 
Howard, 

And  others  of  our  Parliament,  revived, 

I will  show  fire  on  my  side  — stake  and 
fire  — 


352 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Sharp  work  and  short.  The  knaves  are  ' 
easily  cow’d. 

Follow  their  Majesties. 

\_Exit.  The  crowd following. 

Bagenhall.  As  proud  as  Becket. 

Stafford.  You  would  not  have  him  mur- 
der’d as  Becket  was  ? 

Bagenhall.  No  — murder  fathers  mur- 
der: but  I say 

There  is  no  man  — there  was  one  woman 
with  us — 

It  was  a sin  to  love  her  married,  dead 
I cannot  choose  but  love  her. 

Stafford.  Lady  Jane  ? ^ 

Crowd  {going  off).  God  save  their 
Graces. 

Stafford.  Did  you  see  her  die  ? 

Bagenhall.  No,  no  ; her  innocent  blood 
had  blinded  me. 

You  call  me  too  black-blooded  — true 
enough 

Her  dark  dead  blood  is  in  my  heart  with  mine- 
If  ever  I cry  out  against  the  Pope 
Her  dark  dead  blood  that  ever  moves  with 
mine 

Will  stir  the  living  tongue  and  make  the 
cry. 

Stafford.  Yet  doubtless  you  can  tell  me 
how  she  died  ? 

Bagenhall.  Seventeen  -j-  and  knew  eight 
languages  — in  music 

Peerless  — her  needle  perfect,  and  her  learn- 
ing 

Beyond  the  churchmen  ; yet  so  meek,  so 
modest. 

So  wife-like  humble  to  the  trivial  boy 
Mismatch’d  with  her  for  policy  ! I have  heard 
She  would  not  take  a last  farewell  of  him, 
She  fear’d  it  might  unman  him  for  his  end. 
She  could  not  be  unmann’d  — no,  nor  out- 
woman’d  — 

Seventeen  — a rose  of  grace  ! 

Girl  never  breathed  to  rival  such  a rose  ; 
Rose  never  blew  that  equall’d  such  a bud. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhall.  She  came  upon  the  scaffold. 
And  said  she  w'as  condemn’d  to  die  for  trea- 
son ; 

She  had  but  follow’d  the  device  of  those 
Her  nearest  kin  : she  thought  they  knew  the 
laws. 

Rut  for  herself,  she  knew  but  little  law. 

And  nothing  of  the  titles  to  the  crown  ; 

She  had  no  desire  for  that,  and  wrung  her 
hands, 

And  trusted  God  would  save  her  thro’  the 
blood 

Of  Jesus  Christ  alone. 

Stafford.  Pray  you  go  on. 

Bagenhall.  Then  knelt  and  said  the 
Miserere  Mei  — 

But  all  in  English,  mark  you  ; rose  again, 
And,  when  the  headsman  pray’d  to  be  for- 
given. 

Said,  “ You  will  give  me  my  true  crown  at 
last. 

But  do  it  quickly  ” ; then  all  wept  but  she, 


Who  changed  not  color  when  she  saw  the  . 
block. 

But  ask’d  him,  childlike  : “ Will  you  take  it 
off 

Before  I lay  me  dowm?  ” “ No,  madam,” 

he  said. 

Gasping  ; and  when  her  innocent  eyes  were 
bound, 

She,  with  her  poor  blind  hands  feeling  — 
“ where  is  it? 

Where  is  it?”  — You  must  fancy  that  which 
follow’d. 

If  you  have  heart  to  do  it ! 

Crowd  {in  the  distance).  God  save  their 
Graces  ! 

Stafford.  Their  Graces,  our  disgraces  ! 
God  confound  them ! 

Why,  she ’s  grown  bloodier ! when  I last  was 
here. 

This  was  against  her  conscience  — would  be 
murder ! 

Bagenhall.  The  “ Thou  shalt  do  no  mur- 
der,” which  God’s  hand 
Wrote  on  her  conscience,  Mary  rubb’d  out 
pale  — 

She  could  not  make  itwdiite  — and  over  that, 
Traced  in  the  blackest  text  of  Hell  — “ Thou 
shalt ! ” 

And  sign’d  it  — Mary  ! 

Stafford.  Philip  and  the  Pope 

Must  have  sign’d  too.  I hear  this  Legate ’s 
coming 

To  bring  us  absolution  from  the  Pope. 

The  Lords  and  Commons  will  bow  dow’n 
before  him  — 

You  are  of  the  house?  what  will  you  do,  Sir 
Ralph? 

Bagenhall.  And  why  should  I be  bolder 
than  the  rest. 

Or  honester  than  all  ? 

Stafford.  But,  sir,  if  I — 

And  over  sea  they  say  this  state  of  yours 
Hath  no  more  mortise  than  a tower  of  cards ; 
And  that  a puff  would  do  it  — then  if  I 
And  others  made  that  move  I touch’d  upon. 
Back’d  by  the  power  of  France,  and  landing 
here. 

Came  with  a sudden  splendor,  shout,  and 
show, 

And  dazzled  men  and  deafen’d  by  some  bright 
Loud  venture,  and  the  people  so  unquiet  — 
And  I the  race  of  murder’d  Buckingham  — 
Not  for  myself,  but  for  the  kingdom  — Sir, 

I trust  that  you  would  fight  along  w'ith  us. 

Bagenhall.  No ; you  would  fling  your 
lives  into  the  gulf. 

Stafford.  But  if  this  Philip,  as  he ’s  like 
to  do. 

Left  Mary  a wife-widow  here  alone, 

Set  up  a viceroy,  sent  his  myriads  hither 
To  seize  upon  the  forts  and  fleet,  and  make  us 
A Spanish  province  ; would  you  not  fight 
then  ? 

Bagenhall.  I think  I should  fight  then. 

Stafford.  I am  sure  of  it. 

Hist ! there ’s  the  face  coming  on  here  of 


QUEEN  MARY. 


353 


Who  knows  me.  I must  leave  you.  Fare 
you  well, 

You  ’ll  hear  of  me  again. 

Bagenhall.  Upon  the  scaffold. 

\^Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — ROOM  IN  WHITE- 
HALL PALACE. 

Mary.  Enter  Philip  am/ Cardinal  Pole. 
Pole>  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena,  Benedicta 
tu  in  mulieribus. 

Mary-  Loyal  and  royal  cousin,  humblest 
thanks. 

Had  you  a pleasant  voyage  up  the  river? 
Pole.  We  had  your  royal  barge,  and  that 
same  chair. 

Or  rather  throne  of  purple,  on  the  deck. 

Our  silver  cross  sparkled  before  the  prow, 
The  ripples  twinkled  at  their  diamond-dance. 
The  boats  that  follow’d,  were  as  glowing-gay 
As  regal  gardens  ; and  your  flocks  of  swans. 
As  fair  and  white  as  angels  ; and  your  shores 
Wore  in  mine  eyes  the  green  of  Paradise. 
My  foreign  friends,  who  dream’d  us  blanketed 
In  ever-closing  fog,  were  much  amazed 
To  find  as  fair  a sun  as  might  have  flash’d 
Upon  their  Lake  of  Garda,  fire  the  Thames  ; 
Our  voyage  by  sea  was  all  but  miracle  ; 

And  here  the  river  flowing  from  the  sea. 

Not  toward  it  (for  they  thought  not  of  our 
tides), 

Seem’d  as  a happy  miracle  to  make  glide  — 
In  quiet  — home  your  banish’d  countryman. 
Mary.  We  heard  that  you  were  sick  in 
Flanders,  cousin. 

Pole.  A dizziness. 

Miry.  And  how  came  you  round  again  ? 
Pole.  The  scarlet  thread  of  Rahab  saved 
her  life  ; 

And  mine,  a little  letting  of  the  blood. 

Mary.  Well?  now? 

Pole.  Ay,  cousin,  as  the  heathen  giant 
Had  but  to  touch  the  ground,  his  force 
return’d  — 

Thus,  after  twenty  years  of  banishment, 
Feeling  my  native  land  beneath  my  foot, 

I said  thereto  : “Ah,  native  land  of  mine. 
Thou  art  much  beholden  to  this  foot  of  mine, 
That  hastes  with  full  commission  from  the 
Pope 

To  absolve  thee  from  thy  guilt  of  heresy. 
Thou  hast  disgraced  me  and  attainted  me, 
And  mark’d  me  ev’n  as  Cain,  and  I return 
As  Peter,  but  to  bless  thee  : make  me  well.” 
Methinks  the  good  land  heard  me,  for  to-day 
My  heart  beats  twenty,  when  I see  you, 
cousin. 

Ah,  gentle  cousin,  since  your  Herod’s  death, 
How  oft  hath  Peter  knock’d  at  Mary’s  gate  ! 
And  Mary  would  have  risen  and  let  him  in. 
But,  Mary,  there  w-ere  those  within  the  house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Mary.  True,  good  cousin  Pole  ; 

And  there  were  also  those  without  the  house 
Who  would  not  have  it. 

Pole.  I believe  so,  cousin. 


State-policy  and  church-policy  are  conjoint, 
But  Janus-faces  looking  diverse  ways. 

I fear  the  Emperor  much  misvalued  me. 

But  all  is  well ; ’twas  ev’n  the  will  of  God, 
Who,  waiting  till  the  time  had  ripen’d,  now, 
Makes  me  his  mouth  of  holy  greeting. 
“ Hail, 

Daughter  of  God,  and  saver  of  the  faith, 

Sit  benedictus  fructus  ventris  tui ! ” 

Mary.  Ah,  heaven  ! 

Pole.  Unwell,  your  Grace? 

Mary.  No,  cousin,  happy  — 

Happy  to  see  you  ; never  yet  so  happy 
Since  I was  crown’d. 

Pole.  Sweet  cousin,  you  forget 

That  long  low  minster  where  you  gave  your 
hand 

To  this  great  Catholic  King. 

Philip.  Well  said.  Lord  Legate. 

Mary.  Nay,  not  well  said ; I thought  of 
you,  my  liege, 

Ev’n  as  I spoke. 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam  ; my  Lord  Paget 
Waits  to  present  our  Council  to  the  Legate. 
Sit  down  here,  all ; Madam,  between  us  you. 

Pole.  Lo,  now  you  are  enclosed  with 
boards  of  cedar. 

Our  little  sister  of  the  Song  of  Songs  ! 

You  are  doubly  fenced  and  shielded  sitting 
here 

Between  the  two  most  high-set  thrones  on 
earth. 

The  Emperor’s  highness  happily  symboll’d 
by 

The  King  your  husband,  the  Pope’s  Holi- 
ness 

By  mine  own  self 

Mary.^  True,  cousin,  I am  happy. 

When  will  you  that  w'e  summon  both  our 
houses 

To  take  this  absolution  from  your  lips. 

And  be  regather’d  to  the  Papal  fold? 

Pole.  In  Britain’s  calendar  the  brightest 
day 

Beheld  our  rough  forefathers  break  their 
Gods, 

And  clasp  the  faith  in  Christ;  but  after  that 
Might  not  St.  Andrew’s  be  her  happiest  day? 

Mary.  Then  these  shall  meet  upon  St. 
Andrew’s  day. 

Enter  Paget,  u^ho  presents  the  Council. 

Dtimb  show. 

Pole.  I am  an  old  man  wearied  with  my 
journey, 

Ev’n  with  my  joy.  Permit  me  to  withdraw. 
To  Lambeth? 

Philip.  Ay,  Lambeth  has  ousted  Cranmer, 
It  was  not  meet  the  heretic  swine  should 
live 

In  Lambeth. 

Mary.  There  or  anywhere,  or  at  all. 

Philip.  We  have  had  it  swept  and  gar- 
nish’d after  him. 

Pole.  Not  for  the  seven  devils  to  enter  in  ? 

Philip.  No,  for  we  trust  they  parted  in 
the  swine. 


/ 


354 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Pole.  True,  and  I am  the  Angel  of  the 
Pope. 

Farewell,  your  Graces. 

Philip.  Nay,  not  here  — to  me  ; 

I will  go  with  you  to  the  waterside. 

Pole.  Not  be  my  Charon  to  the  counter 
side  ? 

Philip-  No,  my  Lord  Legate,  the  Lord 
Chancellor  goes. 

Pole.  And  unto  no  dead  world ; but  Lam- 
beth palace. 

Henceforth  a centre  of  the  living  faith. 

[Exeunt  Philip,  Pole,  Paget,  etc. 
Manet  Mary. 

Mary.  He  hath  awaked  ! he  hath  awaked  ! 
He  stirs  within  the  darkness  ! 

Oh,  Philip,  husband  ! now  thy  love  to  mine 
Will  cling  more  close,  arid  those  bleak  man- 
ners thaw. 

That  make  me  shamed  and  tongue-tied  in 
my  love. 

The  second  Prince  of  Peace  — 

The  great  unborn  defender  of  the  Faith, 
Who  will  avenge  me  of  mine  enemies — 

He  comes,  and  my  star  rises. 

The  stormy  Wyatts  and  Northumberlands, 
The  proud  ambitions  of  Elizabeth, 

And  all  her  fieriest  partisans  — are  pale 
Before  my  star ! 

The  light  of  this  new  learning  wanes  and 
dies : 

The  ghosts  of  Luther  and  Zuinglius  fade 
Into  the  deathless  hell  which  is  their  doom 
Before  my  star  ! 

His  sceptre  shall  go  forth  from  Ind  to  Ind  ! 
His  sword  shall  hew  the  heretic  peoples 
down  ! 

His  faith  shall  clothe  the  world  that  will  be 
his. 

Like  universal  air  and  sunshine  ! Open, 

Ye  everlasting  gates  I The  King  is  here  ! — 
My  star,  my  son  ! 

Enter  Philip,  Duke  of  Alva,  etc. 

Oh,  Philip,  come  with  me  ; 
Good  news  have  I to  tell  you,  news  to  make 
Both  of  us  happy  — ay  the  Kingdom  too. 
Nay  come  with  me  — one  moment  ! 

Philip  (to  Alva).  More  than  that : 

There  was  one  here  of  late  — William  the 
Silent 

They  call  him  — he  is  free  enough  in  talk. 
But  tells  me  nothing.  You  will  be,  we  trust. 
Some  time  the  viceroy  of  those  provinces  — 
He  must  deserve  his  surname  better. 

A Iva.  Ay,  sir  ; 

Inherit  the  Great  Silence. 

Philip.  True  ; the  provinces 

Are  hard  to  rule  and  must  be  hardly  ruled ; 
Most  fruitful,  yet,  indeed,  an  empty  rind. 

All  hollow’d  out  with  stinging  heresies  ; 

And  for  their  heresies,  Alva,  they  will  fight : 
You  must  break  them  or  they  break  you. 
Alva  (proudly').  The  first. 

Philip.  Good ! 

Well,  Madam,  this  new  happiness  of  mine. 

[Exeunt. 


Enter  Three  Pages. 

First  Page.  News,  mates  ! a miracle,  a 
miracle  ! news ! 

The  bells  must  ring ; Te  Deums  must  be 
sung ; 

The  Queen  hath  felt  the  motion  of  her  babe  ! 
Second  Page.  Ay  ; but  see  here  ! 

First  Page.  See  what? 

Second  Page.  This  paper,  Dickon. 

I found  it  fluttering  at  the  palace  gates  : — 
“The  Queen  of  England  is  delivered  of  a 
dead  dog  ! ” 

Third  Page.  These  are  the  things  that 
madden  her.  Fie  upon  it. 

First  Page.  Ay ; but  I hear  she  hath  a 
dropsy,  lad. 

Or  a high-dropsy,  as  the  doctors  call  it. 
Third  Page.  Fie  on  her  dropsy,  so  she 
have  a dropsy  ! 

I know  that  she  was  ever  sweet  to  me. 

First  Page.  For  thou  and  thine  are  Ro- 
man to  the  core. 

Third  Page.  So  thou  and  thine  must  be. 
Take  heed  ! 

First  Page.  Not  I, 

And  whether  this  flash  of  news  be  false  or 
true. 

So  the  wine  run,  and  there  be  revelry. 
Content  am  I.  Let  all  the  steeples  clash^ 
Till  the  sun  dance,  as  upon  Easter  Day. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  in. — GREAT  HALL  IN 
WHITEHALL. 

At  the  far  end  a dais.  On  this  three 
chairs,  two  under  one  canopy  for  Mary 
and  Philip,  another  on  the  right  of 
these  for  Pole.  Under  the  dais  on 
Pole’s  side,  ranged  along  the  wall,  sit 
all  the  Spiritual  Peers,  and  along  the 
wall  opposite,  all  the  Temporal.  The 
Commons  on  cross  benches  in  front,  a 
line  of  approach  to  the  dais  between 
them.  In  the  foreground  Sir  Ralph 
Bagenhall  and  other  Members  of  the 
Commons. 

First  Member.  St.  Andrew’’s  day ; sit 
close,  sit  close,  we  are  friends. 

Is  reconciled  the  word  ? the  Pope  again  ? 

It  must  be  thus;  and  yet,  cocksbody  ! how 
strange 

That  Gardiner,  once  so  one  with  all  of  us 
Against  this  foreign  marriage,  should  have 
yielded 

So  utterly  ! — strange  ! but  stranger  still  that 
he. 

So  fierce  against  the  Headship  of  the  Pope, 
Should  play  the  second  actor  in  this  pageant 
That  brings  him  in  ; such  a chameleon  he  ! 
Second  Member.  This  Gardiner  turn’d 
his  coat  in  Henry’s  time  ; 

The  serpent  that  hath  slough’d  will  slough 
again. 

Third  Member.  Tut,  then  we  all  are  ser* 
pents. 

Second  Member.  Speak  for  yourself. 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Third  Member.  Ay,  and  for  Gardiner  ! 
being  English  citizen, 

How  should  he  bear  a bridegroom  out  of 
Spain  ? 

The  Queen  would  have  him  ! being  English 
churchman, 

How  should  he  bear  the  headship  of  the 
Pope  ? 

The  Queen  would  have  it ! Statesmen  that 
are  wise 

Shape  a necessity,  as  the  sculptor  clay, 

To  their  own  model. 

Second  Member.  Statesmen  that  are  wise 
Take  truth  herself  for  model,  what  say  you  ? 

\_To  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 

Bagenhall.  We  talk  and  talk. 

First  Member.  Ay,  and  what  use  to  talk? 
Philip ’s  no  sudden  alien  — the  Queen’s  hus- 
band. 

He ’s  here,  and  king,  or  will  be,  — yet  cocks- 
body  ! 

So  hated  here  ! I watch’d  a hive  of  late  ; 
My  seven-years’  friend  was  with  me,  my 
young  boy ; 

Out  crept  a wasp,  with  half  the  swarm  be- 
hind. 

“ Philip,”  says  he.  I had  to  cuff  the  rogue 
For  infant  treason. 

Third  Member.  But  they  say  that  bees. 
If  any  creeping  life  invade  their  hive 
Too  gross  to  be  thrust  out,  will  build  him 
round, 

And  bind  him  in  from  harming  of  their 
combs. 

And  Philip  by  these  articles  is  bound 
From  stirring  hand  or  foot  to  wrong  the 
realm. 

Second  Member.  By  bonds  of  beeswax, 
like  your  creeping  thing  ; 

But  your  wise  bees  had  stung  him  first  to 
death. 

Third  Member.  Hush,  hush  ! 

You  wrong  the  Chancellor : the  clauses 
added 

To  that  same  treaty  which  the  emperor  sent 
us 

Were  mainly  Gardiner’s:  that  no  foreigner 
Hold  office  in  the  household,  fleet,  forts, 
army ; 

That  if  the  Queen  should  die  without  a child. 
The  bond  between  the  kingdoms  be  dis- 
solved ; 

That  Philip  should  not  mix  us  any  way 
With  his  French  wars  — 

Second  Member.  Ay,  ay,  but  what  security, 
Good  sir,  for  this,  if  Philip  — 

Third  Member.  Peace  — the  Queen, 
Philip,  and  Pole.  \_All  rise,  and  stand. 

Enter  Ma-ry,  Philip,  andVoi^K. 

[Gardiner  conducts  them  to  the  three 
chairs  of  state.  Philip  sits  on  the 
Queen’s  left,  Pole  on  her  right. 

Gardimr.  Our  short-lived  sun,  before  his 
winter  plunge. 

Laughs  at  the  last  red  leaf,  and  Andrew’s 
day. 


3SS 

Mary.  Should  not  this  day  be  held  in 
after  years 

More  solemn  than  of  old  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  my  wish 

Echoes  your  Majesty’s. 

Pole.  It  shall  be  so. 

Gardiner.  Mine  echoes  both  your 

Graces’ ; {aside)  but  the  Pope  — 

Can  we  not  have  the  Catholic  church  as  well 
Without  as  with  the  Italian  ? if  we  cannot, 
Why  then  the  Pope. 

My  lords  of  the  upper  house, 
And  ye,  my  masters,  of  the  lower  house. 

Do  ye  stand  fast  by  that  which  ye  resolved  ? 
Voices.  We  do. 

Gardiner.  And  be  you  all  one  mind  to 
supplicate 

The  Legate  here  for  pardon,  and  acknowl- 
edge 

The  primacy  of  the  Pope  ? 

V oices.  We  are  all  one  mind. 

Gardiner.  Then  must  I play  the  vassal 
to  this  Pole.  [Aside.  , 

[I/e  draws  a paper  from  under  his 
robes  and  presents  it  to  the  King 
and  Queen,  who  look  through  it 
and  return  it  to  him  ; then  ascends 
a tribune  and  reads. 

We,  the  Lords  Spiritual  and  Temporal, 

And  Commons  here  in  Parliament  assem- 
bled. 

Presenting  the  w'hole  body  of  this  realm 
Of  England,  and  dominions  of  the  same. 

Do  make  most  humble  suit  unto  your  Majes- 
ties, 

In  our  ow'n  name  and  that  of  all  the  state. 
That  by  your  gracious  means  and  interces- 
sion 

Our  supplication  be  exhibited 
To  the  Lord  Cardinal  Pole,  sent  here  as 
Legate 

From  our  most  holy  father  Julius,  Pope, 

And  from  the  apostolic  see  of  Rome  ; 

And  do  declare  our  penitence  and  grief 
For  our  long  schism  and  disobedience. 

Either  in  making  laws  and  ordinances 
Against  the  Holy  Father’s  primacy, 

Or  else  by  doing  or  by  speaking  aught 
Which  might  impugn  or  prejudice  the  same  ; 
By  this  our  supplication  promising. 

As  well  for  our  own  selves  as  all  the  realm. 
That  now  we  be  and  ever  shall  be  quick. 
Under  and  with  your  Majesties’  authorities. 
To  do  to  the  utmost  all  that  in  us  lies 
Towards  the  abrogation  and  repeal 
Of  all  such  laws  and  ordinances  made  ; 
Whereon  we  humbly  pray  your  Majesties, 

As  persons  undefiled  with  our  offence. 

So  to  set  forth  this  humble  suit  of  ours 
That  we  the  rather  by  your  intercession 
May  from  the  apostolic  see  obtain. 

Thro’  this  most  reverend  Father,  absolution, 
And  full  release  from  danger  of  all  censures 
Of  Holy  Church  that  we  be  fall’n  into. 

So  that  we  may,  as  children  penitent. 

Be  once  again  received  into  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church ; 


356  QUEEN  MARY. 


And  that  this  noble  realm  thro’  after  years 
May  in  this  unity  and  obedience 
Unto  the  holy  see  and  reigning  Pope 
Serve  God  and  both  your  Majesties. 

Voices.  Amen.  \_All  sit. 

\_He  again  prese7tts  the  petition  to  the 
King  and  Queen,  who  hand  it  rev- 
erentially to  Pole. 

Pole  {sitting).  This  is  the  loveliest  day 
that  ever  smiled 

On  England.  All  her  breath  should,  incense 
like. 

Rise  to  the  heavens  in  grateful  praise  of  Him 
Who  now  recalls  her  to  his  ancient  fold. 

Lo  ! once  again  God  to  this  realm  hath  given 
A token  of  His  more  especial  Grace  ; 

For  as  this  people  were  the  first  of  all 
The  islands  call’d  into  the  dawning  church 
Out  of  the  dead,  deep  night  of  heathendom, 
So  now  are  these  the  first  whom  God  hath 
given 

Grace  to  repent  and  sorrow  for  their  schism  ; 
And  if  your  penitence  be  not  mockery, 

Oh  how  the  blessed  angels  who  rejoice 
Over  one  saved  do  triumph  at  this  hour 
In  the  reborn  salvation  of  a land 
So  noble.  [A  pause. 

For  ourselves  we  do  protest 
That  our  commission  is  to  heal,  not  harm  ; 
We  come  not  to  condemn,  but  reconcile  ; 
We  come  not  to  compel,  but  call  again  ; 

We  come  not  to  destroy,  but  edify  ; 

Nor  yet  to  question  things  already  done  ; 
These  are  forgiven  — matters  of  the  past  — 
And  range  with  jetsam  and  with  offal  thrown 
Into  the  blind  sea  of  forgetfulness.  {^A  pause. 
Ye  have  reversed  the  attainder  laid  on  us 
By  him  who  sack’d  the  house  of  God ; and  we, 
Amplier  than  any  field  on  our  poor  earth 
Can  render  thanks  in  fruit  for  being  sown, 
Do  here  and  now  repay  you  sixty-fold, 

A hundred,  yea,  a thousand  thousand  fold. 
With  heaven  for  earth. 

[Rising  and  stretching  forth  his  hands. 
A ll  kneel  but  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall, 
who  rises  and  remains  standing. 

The  Lord  who  hath  redeem’d  us 
With  his  own  blood,  and  wash’d  us  from  our 
sins. 

To  purchase  for  Himself  a stainless  bride ; 
He,  whom  the  Father  hath  appointed  Head 
Of  all  his  church.  He  by  His  mercy  absolve 
you ! _ [A  pause. 

And  we  by  that  authority  Apostolic 
Given  unto  us,  his  Legate,  by  the  Pope, 
Our  Lord  and  Holy  Father,  Julius, 

God’s  Vicar  and  Vicegerent  upon  earth. 

Do  here  absolve  you  and  deliver  you 
And  every  one  of  you,  and  all  the  realm 
And  its  dominions  from  all  heresy. 

All  schism,  and  from  all  and  every  censure. 
Judgment,  and  pain  accruing  thereupon  ; 
And  also  we  restore  you  to  the  bosom 
And  unity  of  Universal  Church. 

[Turning  to  Gardiner. 
Our  letters  of  commission  will  declare  this 
plainlier. 


[Queen  heard  sobbing.  Cries  of 
A men  ! A men  ! Some  of  the  mem- 
bers embrace  one  another.  All  but 
Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall  pass  out  into 
the  neighboring  chapel^  whence  is 
heard  the  Te  Deum. 

Bagenhall.  W e strove  against  the  papacy 
from  the  first, 

In  William’s  time,  in  our  first  Edward’s  time. 
And  in  my  master  Henry’s  time  ; but  now, 
The  unity  of  Universal  Church, 

Mary  would  have  it ; and  this  Gardiner  fol- 
lows ; 

The  unity  of  Universal  Hell, 

Philip  would  have  it ; and  this  Gardiner  fol- 
lows ! 

A Parliament  of  imitative  apes  ! 

Sheep  at  the  gap  which  Gardiner  takes,  who 
not. 

Believes  the  Pope,  nor  any  of  them  believe  — 
These  spaniel-Spaniard  English  of  the  time. 
Who  rub  their  fawning  noses  in  the  dust. 
For  that  is  Philip’s  gold-dust,  and  adore 
This  Vicar  of  their  Vicar.  Would  I had 
been 

Born  Spaniard ! I had  held  my  head  up 
then. 

I am  ashamed  that  I am  Bagenhall, 

English. 

Enter  Officer. 

Officer.  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall. 

Bagenhall.  What  of  that  ? 

Officer.  You  were  the  one  sole  man  in 
either  house 

Who  stood  upright  when  both  the  houses  fell. 

Bagenhall.  The  houses  fell ! 

Officer.  I mean  the  houses  knelt 

Before  the  Legate 

Bagenhall.  Do  not  scrimp  your  phrase, 
But  stretch  it  wider ; say  when  England  fell. 

Officer.  I say  you  were  the  one  sole  man 
who  stood. 

Bagenhall.  I am  the  one  sole  man  in 
either  house, 

Perchance  in  England,  loves  her  like  a son. 

Officer.  Well,  you  one  man,  because  you 
stood  upright, 

Her  Grace  the  Queen  commands  you  to  the 
Tower. 

Bagenhall.  As  traitor,  or  as  heretic,  or 
for  what  ? 

Officer.  If  any  man  in  any  way  would  be 
The  one  man  he  shall  be  so  to  his  cost. 

Bagenhall.  What  1 will  she  have  my 
head  ? 

Officer.  A round  fine  likelier. 

Your  pardon.  [Calling  to  A tte7idant. 

By  the  river  to  the  Tower. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  — WHITEHALL.  A 
ROOM  IN  THE  PALACE. 

Mary,  Gardiner,  Pole,  Paget,  Bon- 
ner, etc. 

Mary.  The  king  and  I,  my  Lords,  now 
that  all  traitors 


QUEEN  MARY. 


357 


Against  our  royal  state  have  lost  the  heads 
Wherewith  they  plotted  in  their  treasonous 
malice, 

Have  talk’d  together,  and  are  well  agreed 
That  those  old  statutes  touching  Lollardism 
To  bring  the  heretic  to  the  stake,  should  be 
No  longer  a dead  letter,  but  requicken’d. 

One  of  the  Council.  Why,  what  hath  flus- 
ter’d Gardiner?  how  he  rubs 
His  forelock. 

Paget.  I have  changed  a word  with  him 
In  coming,  and  may  change  a word  again. 

Gardiner.  Madam,  your  Highness  is  our 
sun,  the  King 

And  you  together  our  two  suns  in  one  ; 

And  so  the  beams  of  both  may  shine  upon  us. 
The  faith  that  seem’d  to  droop  will  feel  your 
light, 

Lift  head,  and  flourish  ; yet  not  light  alone. 
There  must  be  heat  — there  must  be  heat 
enough 

To  scorch  and  wither  heresy  to  the  root. 

For  what  saith  Christ?  “Compel  them  to 
come  in.” 

And  what  saith  Paul ? “I  would  they  were 
cut  off 

That  trouble  you.”  Let  the  dead  letter  live  ! 
Trace  it  in  fire,  that  all  the  louts  to  whom 
Their  A B C is  darkness,  clowns  and  grooms 
May  read  it ! so  you  quash  rebellion  too, 

For  heretic  and  traitor  are  all  one  ; 

Two  vipers  of  one  breed  — an  amphisboena. 
Each  end  a sting  : Let  the  dead  letter  burn  ! 

Paget.  Yet  there  be  some  disloyal  Catho- 
lics, 

And  many  heretics  loyal  : heretic  throats 
Cried  no  God-bless-her  to  the  Lady  Jane, 
But  shouted  in  Queen  Mary.  So  there  be 
Some  traitor-heretic,  there  is  axe  and  cord. 
To  take  the  lives  of  others  that  are  loyal. 
And  by  the  churchman’s  pitiless  doom  of 
fire 

Were  but  a thankless  policy  in  the  crown. 
Ay,  and  against  itself ; for  there  are  many. 

Mary.  If  we  could  burn  out  heresy,  my 
Lord  Paget, 

We  reck  not  tho’  we  lost  this  crown  of  Eng- 
land — 

Ay  ! tho’  it  were  ten  Englands  ! 

Gardiner.  Right,  your  Grace. 

Paget,  you  are  all  for  this  poor  life  of  ours. 
And  care  but  little  for  the  life  to  be. 

Paget.  I have  some  time,  for  curiousness, 
my  Lord, 

Watch’d  children  playing  at  their  life  to  be. 
And  cruel  at  it,  killing  helpless  flies  ; 

Such  is  our  time  — all  times  for  aught  I 
know. 

Gardiner.  We  kill  the  heretics  that  sting 
the  soul  — 

They,  with  right  reason,  flies  that  prick  the 
flesh. 

Paget.  They  had  not  reach’d  right  rea- 
son ; little  children  ! 

They  kill’d  but  for  their  pleasure  and  the 
power 

They  felt  in  killing. 


Gardiner.  A spice  of  Satan,  ha  ! 

Why,  good  I what  then  ? granted  ! — we  are 
fallen  creatures ; 

Look  to  your  Bible,  Paget ! we  are  fallen. 

Paget.  I am  but  of  the  laity,  my  Lord 
Bishop, 

And  may  not  read  your  Bible,  yet  I found 
One  day,  a wholesome  scripture,  “ Little 
children. 

Love  one  another.” 

Gardiner.  Did  you  find  a scripture, 

“I  come  not  to  bring  peace  but  a sword”? 
The  sword 

Is  in  her  Grace’s  hand  to  smite  with.  Paget, 
You  stand  up  here  to  fight  for  heresy. 

You  are  more  than  guess’d  at  as  a heretic. 
And  on  the  steep-up  track  of  the  true  faith 
Your  lapses  are  far  seen. 

Paget.  The  faultless  Gardiner  ! 

Mary.  You  brawl  beyond  the  question ; 
speak,  Lord  Legate. 

Pole.  Indeed,  I cannot  follow  with  your 
Grace, 

Rather  would  say  — the  shepherd  doth  not 
kill 

The  sheep  that  wander  from  his  flock,  but 
sends 

His  careful  dog  to  bring  them  to  the  fold. 
Look  to  the  Netherland^s,  wherein  have  been 
Such  holocausts  of  heresy  ! to  what  end  ? 

For  yet  the  faith  is  not  established  there. 

Gardiner.  The  end ’s  not  come. 

Pole.  No  — nor  this  way  will  come. 

Seeing  there  lie  two  ways  to  every  end, 

A better  and  a worse  — the  worse  is  here 
To  persecute,  because  to  persecute 
Makes  a faith  hated,  and  is  furthermore 
No  perfect  witness  of  a perfect  faith 
In  him  who  persecutes  : when  men  are  tost 
On  tides  of  strange  opinion,  and  not  sure 
Of  their  own  selves,  they  are  wroth  with 
their  own  selves. 

And  thence  with  others  ; then,  who  lights 
the  fagot  ? 

Not  the  full  faith,  no,  but  the  lurking  doubt. 
Old  Rome,  that  first  made  martyrs  in  the 
Church, 

Trembled  for  her  own  gods,  for  these  were 
trembling  — 

But  when  did  our  Rome  tremble  ? 

Paget.  Did  she  not 

In  Henry’s  time  and  Edward’s? 

Pole.  What,  my  Lord  ! 

The  Church  on  Peter’s  rock?  never  ! I have 
seen 

A pine  in  Italy  that  cast  its  shadow 
Athwart  a cataract ; firm  stood  the  pine  — 
The  cataract  shook  the  shadow.  To  my 
mind, 

The  cataract  typed  the  headlong  plunge  and 
fall 

Of  heresy  to  the  pit : the  pine  was  Rome. 
You  see,  my  Lords, 

It  was  the  shadow  of  the  Church  that  trem- 
bled ; 

Your  church  was  but  the  shadow  of  a church. 
Wanting  the  triple  mitre. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Gardiner  {muttering).  Here  be  tropes. 
Pole.  And  tropes  are  good  to  clothe  a 
naked  truth, 

And  make  it  look  more  seemly. 

Gardiner.  Tropes  again  ! 

Pole.  You  are  hard  to  please.  Then  with- 
out tropes,  my  Lord, 

An  overmuch  severeness,  I repeat, 

When  faith  is  wavering  makes  the  waverer 
pass 

Into  more  settled  hatred  of  the  doctrines 
Of  those  who  rule,  which  hatred  by  and  by 
Involves  the  ruler  (thus  there  springs  to  light 
That  Centaur  of  a monstrous  Commonweal, 
The  traitor-heretic)  then  tho’  some  may 
quail. 

Yet  others  are  that  dare  the  stake  and  fire. 
And  their  strong  torment  bravely  borne,  be- 
gets 

An  admiration  and  an  indignation. 

And  hot  desire  to  imitate  ; so  the  plague 
Of  schism  spreads  ; w'ere  there  but  three  or 
four 

Of  these  misleaders,  yet  I would  not  say 
Burn  ! and  we  cannot  burn  whole  towns  ; 

they  are  many. 

As  my  Lord  Paget  says. 

Gardiner.  Yet  my  Lord  Cardinal  — 

Pole.  I am  your  Legate ; please  you  let 
me  finish. 

Methinks  that  under  our  Queen’s  regimen 
We  might  go  softlier  than  with  crimson  rowel 
And  streaming  lash.  When  Herod-Henry 

Began  to  batter  at  your  English  Church, 
This  was  the  cause,  and  hence  the  judgment 
on  her. 

She  seethed  with  such  adulteries,  and  the 
lives 

Of  many  among  your  churchmen  were  so  foul 
That  heaven  wept  and  earth  blush  d.  1 
would  advise 

That  we  should  thoroughly  cleanse  the 
Church  within  . 

Before  these  bitter  statutes  be  requicken  d. 
So  after  that  when  she  once  more  is  seen 
White  as  the  light,  the  spotless  bride  of 
Christ, 

I.ike  Christ  himself  on  Tabor,  possibly 
The  Lutheran  may  be  won  to  her  again  ; 

Till  when,  my  Lords,  I counsel  tolerance. 

Gardiner.  What  if  a mad  dog  bit  your 
hand,  my  Lord, 

Would  you  not  chop  the  bitten  finger  oft. 
Lest  your  whole  body  should  madden  with 
the  poison  ? 

1 would  not,  were  I Queen,  tolerate  the 
heretic, 

No,  not  an  hour.  The  fuler  of  a land 
1«  bounden  by  his  power  and  place  to  see 
H is  people  be  not  poison’d.  Tolerate  them  ! 
Why?  do  they  tolerate  you?  Nay,  many  of 
them 

Would  burn  — have  burnt  each  other  ; call 
they  not 

The  one  true  faith,  a loathsome  idol-wor- 
ship ? 


Beware,  Lord  Legate,  of  a heavier  crime 
Than  heresy  is  itself ; beware  I say. 

Lest  men  accuse  you  of  indifference 
'I'o  all  faiths,  all  religion  ; for  you  know 
Right  well  that  you  yourself  have  been  sup- 
posed 

Tainted  with  Lutheranism  in  Italy. 

Pole{angered).  But  you,  my  Lord,  beyond 
all  supposition. 

In  clear  and  open  day  v,'ere  congruent 
With  that  vile  Cranmer  in  the  accursed  lie 
Of  good  Queen  Catherine’s  divorce  — the 
spring 

Of  all  those  evils  that  have  flow’d  upon  us ; 
For  you  yourself  have  truckled  to  the  tyrant. 
And  done  your  best  to  bastardize  our  Queen, 
For  which  God’s  righteous  judgment  fell 
upon  you 

In  your  five  years  of  imprisonment,  my 
Lord, 

Under  young  Edward.  Who  so  bolster’d  up 
The  gross  King’s  headship  of  the  Church, 
or  more 

Denied  the  Holy  Father  ! 

Gardiner.  Ha!  what!  eh. 

But  you,  my  Lord,  a polish’d  gentleman, 

A bookman,  flying  from  the  heat  and  tussle, 
You  lived  among  your  vines  and  oranges. 

In  your  soft  Italy  yonder!  You  were  sent 
for. 

You  were  appeal’d  to,  but  you  still  preferr  d 
Your  learned  leisure.  As  for  what  I did 
I suffer’d  and  repented.  You,  Lord  Legale 
And  Cardinal-Deacon,  have  not  now  to  learn 
That  ev’n  St.  Peter  in  his  time  of  fear 
Denied  his  Master,  ay,  and  thrice,  my  Lord. 

Pole.  But  not  for  five  and  twenty  years, 
my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Ha  ! good  ! it  seems  then  I 
was  summon’d  hither 

But  to  be  mock’d  and  baited.  Speak,  friend 
Bonner,  , , , i 

And  tell  this  learned  Legate  he  lacks  zeal. 
The  Church’s  evil  is  not  as  the  King’s, 
Cannot  be  heal’d  by  stroking.  Ihe  mad 
bite 

Must  have  the  cautery  — tell  him— and  at 
once.  . 

What  wouldsl  thou  do  hadst  thou  his  power, 
thou 

That  lavest  so  long  in  heretic  bonds  with  me. 
Wouldst  thou  not  burn  and  blast  them  root 
and  branch  ? 

Bonner.  Av,  after  you,  my  Lord. 

Gardiner.  Nay,  God’s  passion,  before 
me  ! speak. 

Bon7ier.  1 am  on  fire  until  I see  them 
flame- 

Gardiner.  Ay,  the  psalm-singing  weavers, 
cobblers,  scum  — 

But  this  most  noble  prince  Plantagenet, 

Our  good  Queen’s  cousin —dallying  over 

Even  when  his  brother’s,  nay,  his  noble 
mother’s. 

Head  fell  — 

Pole.  Peace,  mad  man  ! 


QUEEN  MARY. 


359 


Thou  stirrest  up  a grief  thou  canst  not  fathom . 
Thou  Christian  Bishop,  thou  Lord  Chan- 
cellor 

Of  England  ! no  more  rein  upon  thine  anger 
Than  any  child  ! Thou  mak’st  me  much 
ashamed 

That  I was  for  a moment  wroth  at  thee. 

Mary.  I come  for  counsel  and  ye  give  me 
feuds, 

Like  dogs  that  set  to  watch  their  master’s 
gate, 

Fall,  when  the  thief  is  ev’n  within  the  walls, 
To  worrying  one  another.  My  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, 

You  have  an  old  trick  of  offending  us  ; 

And  but  that  you  are  art  and  part  with  us 
In  purging  heresy,  well  we  might,  for  this 
Your  violence  and  much  roughness  to  the 
Legate, 

Have  shut  you  from  our  counsels.  Cousin 
Pole, 

You  are  fresh  from  brighter  lands.  Retire 
with  me. 

His  highness  and  myself  (so  you  allow  us) 
Will  let  you  learn  in  peace  and  privacy 
What  power  this  cooler  sun  of  England  hath 
In  breeding  Godless  vermin.  And  pray 
Heaven 

That  you  may  see  according  to  our  sight. 
Come,  cousin. 

[Exeunt  Queen  a^id  Pole,  etc. 

Gardiner.  Pole  has  the  Plantagenet 
face. 

But  not  the  force  made  them  our  mightiest 
kings- 

Fine  eyes  — but  melancholy,  irresolute  — 

A fine  beard,  Bonner,  a very  full  fine  beard. 
But  a w'eak  mouth,  an  indeterminate  — ha? 

Bonner.  Well,  a weak  mouth,  perchance. 

Gardiner.  And  not  like  thine 

To  gorge  a heretic  whole,  roasted  or  raw. 

Bonner-  I ’d  do  my  best,  my  Lord ; but 
yet  the  Legate 

Is  here  as  Pope  and  Master  of  the  Church, 
And  if  he  go  not  with  you  — 

Gardiner.  Tut,  Master  Bishop, 

Our  bashful  Legate,  saw’st  not  how  he 
flush’d 

Touch  him  upon  his  old  heretical  talk, 

He  ’ll  burn  a diocese  to  prove  his  orthodoxy. 
And  let  him  call  me  truckler.  In  those 
times. 

Thou  knowest  we  had  to  dodge,  or  duck,  or 
die  ; 

I kept  my  head  for  use  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  see  you,  we  shall  have  to  dodge  again. 
And  let  the  Pope  trample  our  rights,  and 
plunge 

His  foreign  fist  into  our  island  Church 
To  plump  the  leaner  pouch  of  Italy. 

For  a time,  for  a time. 

Why?  that  these  statutes  may  be  put  in 
force. 

And  that  his  fan  may  thoroughly  purge  his 
floor. 

Bonner.  So  then  you  hold  the  Pope  — 

Gardiner.  I hold  the  Pope  ! 


What  do  I hold  him?  what  do  I hold  the 
Pope  ? 

Come,  come,  the  morsel  stuck  — this  Car- 
dinal’s fault  — 

I have  gulpt  it  down,  I am  wholly  for  the 
Pope, 

Utterly  and  altogether  for  the  Pope, 

The  Eternal  Peter  of  the  changeless  chair. 
Crown’d  slave  of  slaves,  and  mitred  king  of 
kings, 

God  upon  earth  ! what  more  ? what  would 
you  have  ? 

Hence,  let ’s  be  gone. 

Enter  Usher. 

Usher.  Well  that  you  be  not  gone. 

My  Lord.  The  Queen,  most  wroth  at  first 
with  you. 

Is  now  content  to  grant  you  full  forgiveness. 
So  that  you  crave  full  pardon  of  the  Legate. 
I am  sent  to  fetch  you. 

Gardmer.  Doth  Pole  yield,  sir,  ha  ! 
Did  you  hear  ’em  ? .were  you  by  ? 

Usher.  I cannot  tell  you. 

His  bearing  is  so  courtly-delicate  ; 

And  yet  methinks  he  falters : their  two 
Graces 

Do  so  dear-cousin  and  royal-cousin  him, 

So  press  on  him  the  duty  which  as  Legate 
He  owes  himself,  and  with  such  royal 
smiles  — 

Gardiner.  Smiles  that  burn  men.  Bon- 
ner, it  will  be  carried. 

He  falters,  ha?  ’fore  God  we  change  and 
change ; 

Men  now  are  bow’d  and  old,  the  doctors  tell 
you. 

At  threescore  years  ; then  if  we  change  at  all 
We  needs  must  do  it  quickly ; it  is  an  age 
Of  brief  life,  and  brief  purpose,  and  brief 
patience. 

As  I have  shown  to-day.  I am  sorry  for  it 
If  Pole  be  like  to  turn.  Our  old  friend 
Cranmer, 

Your  more  especial  love,  hath  turn’d  so 
often. 

He  knows  not  where  he  stands,  which,  if 
this  pass. 

We  too  shall  have  to  teach  him;  let  ’em 
look  to  it, 

Cranmer  and  Hooper,  Ridley  and  Latimer, 
Rogers  and  Ferrar,  for  their  time  is  come. 
Their  hour  is  hard  at  hand,  their  “ dies  Irae,’ 
Their  “ dies  Ilia,”  which  will  test  their  sect. 
I feel  it  but  a duty  — you  will  find  in  it 
Pleasure  as  well  as  duty,  worthy  Bonner,  — 
To  test  their  sect.  Sir,  I attend  the  Queen 
To  crave  most  humble  pardon  — of  her  most 
Royal,  Infallible,  Papal  Legate-cousin, 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  — WOODSTOCK. 

Elizabeth,  Lady  in  Waiting. 

Lady.  The  colors  of  our  Queen  are  green 
and  white, 

These  fields  are  only  green,  they  make  me 
gape. 


/ 


360  QUEEN 

Elizabeth,  There ’s  whitethorn,  girl. 

Lady.  Ay,  for  an  hour  in  May. 

But  court  is  always  May,  buds  out  in  masks. 
Breaks  into  feather’d  merriments,  and  flow- 
ers 

In  silken  pageants.  Why  do  they  keep  us 
here  ? 

Why  still  suspect  your  Grace  ? 

Elizabeth.  ^ Hard  upon  both. 

[ Writes  on  the  window  with  a diamond^ 
Much  suspected,  of  me 

Nothing  proven  can  be, 

Quoth  Elizabeth,  prisoner. 

Lady.  What  hath  your  Highness  written  ? 
Elizabeth.  A true  rhyme. 

Lady.  Cut  with  a diamond;  so  to  last 
like  truth. 

Elizabeth.  Ay,  if  truth  last. 

Lady.  But  truth,  they  say,  will  out, 

So  it  must  last.  It  is  not  like  a word, 

That  comes  and  goes  in  uttering. 

Elizabeth.  Truth,  a word ! 

The  very  Truth  and  very  Word  are  one. 

But  truth  of  story,  which  1 glanced  at,  girl. 

Is  like  a word  that  comes  from  olden  days. 
And  passes  thro’  the  peoples : every  tongue 
Alters  it  passing,  till  it  spells  and  speaks 
Quite  other  than  at  first. 

Lady.  I follow. 

Elizabeth.  How  many  names  in  the  long 
sweep  of  time 

That  so  foreshortens  greatness,  may  but  hang 
On  the  chance  mention  of  some  fool  that 
once 

Brake  bread  with  us,  perhaps  ; and  my  poor 
chronicle 

Is  but  of  glass.  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield 

May  split  it  for  a spite. 

Lady.  God  grant  it  last. 

And  witness  to  your  Grace’s  innocence. 

Till  doomsday  melt  it. 

Elizabeth.  Or  a second  fire, 

Like  that  which  lately  crackled  underfoot 
And  in  this  very  chamber,  fuse  the  glass. 

And  char  us  back  again  into  the  dust 

We  spring  from.  Never  peacock  against 
rain 

Scream’d  as  you  did  for  water. 

Lady.  And  I got  it. 

I woke  Sir  Henry  — and  he’s  true  to  you 

I read  his  honest  horror  in  his  eyes. 
Elizabeth.  Or  true  to  you  ? 

Lady.  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield  ! 

I will  have  no  man  true  to  me,  your  Grace, 
But  one  that  pares  his  nails;  to  me?  the 
clown  ! 

For,  like  his  cloak,  his  manners  want  the 
nap 

And  gloss  of  court ; but  of  this  fire  he  says, 
Nav  swears,  it  was  no  wicked  wilfulness, 
Onlv  a natural  chance. 

Elizabeth.  A chance  — perchance 

One  of  those  wicked  wiltuls  that  men  make. 
Nor  shame  to  call  it  nature.  Nay,  1 know 
They  hunt  my  blood.  Save  for  my  daily 

Among^theVeasant  fields  of  Holy  Writ 

MARY. 

I might  despair.  But  there  hath  some  one 
come ; 

The  house  is  all  in  movement.  Hence,  and 
see.  {.Exit  Lady. 

Milkmaid  {singing  without). 

Shame  upon  you,  Robin, 

Shame  upon  you  now  ! 

Kiss  me  would  you  ? with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  ? 

Daisies  grow  again, 

Kingcups  blow  again, 

And  you  came  and  kiss'd  me  milking  the  cow. 

Robin  came  behind  me. 

Kiss'd  me  well  I vow  ; 

Cuff  him  could  I ? with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow  V 

Swallows  fly  again. 

Cuckoos  cry  again. 

And  you  came  and  kiss’d  me  milking  the  cow. 

Come,  Robin,  Robin, 

Come  and  kiss  me  now  ; 

Help  it  can  I ? with  my  hands 

Milking  the  cow? 

Ringdoves  coo  again. 

All  things  woo  again. 

Come  behind  and  kiss  me  milking  the  cow  ! 
Elizabeth.  Right  honest  and  red-cheek’d ; 
Robin  was  violent, 

And  she  was  crafty  — a sweet  violence. 

And  a sweet  craft.  1 would  I were  a milk- 
maid. 

To  sing,  love,  marry,  churn,  brew,  bake,  and 
die, 

Then  have  my  simple  headstone  by  the 
church. 

And  all  things  lived  and  ended  honestly. 

I could  not  if  I would.  1 am  Harry’s  daugh- 
ter  : 

Gardiner  w’ould  have  my  head.  They  are 
not  sweet, 

The  violence  and  the  craft  that  do  divide 

The  world  of  nature  ; what  is  weak  must  lie  ; 
The  lion  needs  but  roar  to  guard  his  young  ; 
The  lapwing  lies,  sa5's  “here”  when  they 
are  there. 

Threaten  the  child ; “ I ’ll  scourge  you  if  you 
did  it.” 

What  weapon  hath  the  child,  save  his  soft 
tongue, 

To  say  “I  did  not”?  and  my  rod  s the 
block. 

I never  lay  my  head  upon  the  pillow 

But  that  I think,  “ Wilt  thou  lie  there  to- 
morrow- ? ” 

How  oft  the  falling  axe,  that  never  fell, 

Hath  shock’d  me  back  into  the  daylight  truth 
That  it  may  fall  to-day  ! Those  damp, 
black,  dead 

Nights  in  the  Tower;  dead  — with  the  fear 
of  death  — 

Too  dead  ev’n  for  a death-watch  ! Toll  of  a 
bell. 

Stroke  of  a clock,  the  scurrying  of  a rat 
Affrighted  me,  and  then  delighted  me, 

For  there  was  life  — And  there  was  life  in 
death  — 

The  little  murder’d  princes,  in  a pale  light. 
Rose  hand  in  hand,  and  whisper’d,  “ come 
away, 

QUEEN  MARY.  361 


The  civil  wars  are  gone  forevermore : 

Thou  last  of  all  the  Tudors,  come  away, 
With  us  is  peace  I”  The  last?  It  was  a 
dream  ; 

I must  not  dream,  not  wink,  but  w'atch. 
She  has  gone, 

Maid  Marian  to  her  Robin  — by  and  by 
Both  happy  ! a fox  may  filch  a hen  by  night, 
And  make  a morning  outcry  in  the  yard  ; 
But  there ’s  no  Renard  here  to  “catch  her 
tripping.” 

Catch  me  who  can  ; yet,  sometime  I have 
wish’d 

That  I were  caught,  and  kill’d  away  at  once 
Out  of  the  flutter.  The  gray  rogue,  Gardiner, 
Went  on  his  knees,  and  pray’d  me  to  confess 
In  Wyatt’s  business,  and  to  cast  myself 
Upon  the  good  Queen’s  mercy ; ay,  when, 
my  Lord  ? 

God  save  the  Queen.  My  jailer  — 

Enter  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield. 
Bedingfield.  One,  whose  bolts. 

That  jail  you  from  free  life,  bar  you  from 
death. 

There  haunt  some  Papist  ruffians  hereabout 
Would  murder  you. 

Elizabeth.  I thank  you  heartily,  sir. 

But  I am  royal,  tho’  your  prisoner. 

And  God  hath  blest  or  cursed  me  with  a 
nose  — 

Your  boots  are  from  the  horses. 

Bedingfield.  Ay,  my  Lady. 

When  next  there  comes  a missive  from  the 
Queen 

It  shall  be  all  my  study  for  one  hour 
To  rose  and  lavender  my  horsiness, 

Before  I dare  to  glance  upon  your  Grace. 
Elizabeth.  A missive  from  the  Queen  : 
last  time  she  wrote, 

I had  like  to  have  lost  my  life : it  takes  my 
breath  : 

0 God,  sir,  do  you  look  upon  your  boots. 
Are  you  so  small  a man  ? Help  me ; what 

think,  you. 

Is  it  life  or  death  ? 

Bedingfield.  I thought  not  on  my  boots  ; 
The  devil  take  all  boots  were  ever  made 
Since  man  went  barefoot.  See,  I lay  it  here. 
For  I will  come  no  nearer  to  your  Grace  ; 

\^I.aying  do'wn  the  letter. 
And  whether  it  bring  you  bitter  news  or 
sweet, 

And  God  have  given  your  Grace  a nose,  or 
not, 

1 ’ll  help  you,  if  I may. 

Elizabeth.  Your  pardon,  then  ; 

It  is  the  heat  and  narrowness  of  the  cage 
That  makes  the  captive  testy  ; with  free  wing 
The  world  were  all  one  Araby.  Leave  me 
now. 

Will  you,  companion  to  mvself,  sir  ? 

Bedingfield.  ' Will  I? 

With  most  exceeding  willingness,  I will ; 
You  know  I never  come  till  I be  call’d. 

\Exit. 

Elizabeth.  It  lies  there  folded:  is  there 
venom  in  it? 


A snake  — and  if  I touch  it,  it  may  sting. 
Come,  come,  the  worst  ! 

Best  wisdom  is  to  know  the  worst  at  once. 

[Reads  .* 

“ It  is  the  King’s  wish  that  you  should  wed 
Prince  Philibert  of  Savoy.  You  are  to  come 
to  Court  on  the  instant  ; and  think  of  this  in 
your  coming.  Mary  the  Queen.” 

Think  ! 1 have  many  thoughts  ; 

I think  there  may  be  birdlime  here  for  me  ; 

I think  they  fain  would  have  me  from  the 
realm  ; 

I think  the  Queen  may  never  bear  a child  ; 

I think  that  I may  be  sometime  the  Queen, 
Then,  Queen  indeed:  no  foreign  prince  or 
priest 

Should  fill  my  throne,  myself  upon  the  steps. 
I think  I will  not  marry  any  ore. 

Specially  not  this  landless  Philibert 
Of  Savoy ; but,  if  Philip  menace  me, 

I think  that  I will  play  with  Philibert,  — 

As  once  the  holy  father  did  with  mine. 
Before  my  father  married  my  good  mother,  — 
For  fear  of  Spain. 

Enter  Lady. 

Lady.  O Lord  ! your  Grace,  your  Grace 
I feel  so  happy  : it  seems  that  w^e  shall  fly 
These  bald,  blank  fields,  and  dance  into  the 
sun 

That  shines  on  princes. 

Elizabeth.  Yet,  a moment  since, 

I wish’d  myself  the  milkmaid  singing  here. 
To  kiss  and  cuff  among  the  birds  and  flow- 
ers  — 

A right  rough  life  and  healthful. 

Lady.  But  the  wench 

Hath  her  own  troubles ; she  is  weeping  now  ; 
For  the  wTong  Robin  took  her  at  her  word. 
Then  the  cow  kick’d,  and  all  her  milk  was 
spilt. 

Your  Highness  such  a milkmaid? 

Elizabeth.  ^ I had  kept 

My  Robins  and  my  cow's  in  sweeter  order 
Had  I been  such. 

Lady  {slyly).  And  had  your  Grace  a Robin. 
Elizabeth-  Come,  come,  you  are  chill 
here  ; you  want  the  sun 
That  shines  at  court;  make  ready  for  the 
journey. 

Pray  God,  we  ’scape  the  sunstroke.  Ready 
at  once.  [Exeimt. 

SCENE  VL  — LONDON.  A ROOM 
IN  THE  PALACE. 

Lord  Petre  and  Lord  William  Howard. 
Petre.  You  cannot  see  the  Queen.  Re- 
nard denied  her, 

Ev’n  now  to  me. 

Howard.  Their  Flemish  go-between 
And  all-in-all.  I came  to  thank  her  Majesty 
For  freeing  my  friend  Bagenhall  from  the 
Tower ; 

A grace  to  me  I Mercy,  that  herb-of-grace. 
Flowers  now  but  seldom. 

Petre.  Only  now  perhaps. 


/ 


362 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Because  the  Queen  hath  been  three  days  in 
tears 

For  Philip’s  going  — like  the  wild  hedge-rose 
Of  a soft  winter,  possible,  not  probable, 
However,  you  have  prov’n  it. 

Howard.  I must  see  her. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard-  My  Lords,  you  cannot  see  her 
Majesty. 

Howard.  Why  then  the  King  ! for  I 
would  have  him  bring  it 
Home  to  the  leisure  wisdom  of  his  Queen, 
Before  he  go,  that  since  these  statutes  past, 
Gardiner  out-Gardiners  Gardiner  in  his  heat, 
Bonner  cannot  out-Bonner  his  own  self — 
Beast ! — but  they  play  with  fire  as  children 
do, 

And  burn  the  house.  I know  that  these  are 
breeding 

A fierce  resolve  and  fixt  heart-hate  in  men 
Against  the  King,  the  Queen,  the  Holy 
Father, 

The  faith  itself.  Can  I not  see  him  ? 

Renard.  . Not  now. 

And  in  all  this,  my  Lord,  her  Majesty 
Is  flint  of  flint,  you  may  strike  fire  from  her, 
Not  hope  to  melt  her.  I will  give  your  mes- 
sage. [Exetmt  Petre  and  Howard. 

Enter  Philip  {musing). 

Philip.  She  will  not  have  Prince  Philibert 
of  Savoy, 

I talk’d  with  her  in  vain  — says  she  will  live 
And  die  true  maid  — a goodly  creature  too. 
Would  she  had  been  the  Queen  ! yet  she 
must  have  him  ; 

She  troubles  England  : that  she  breathes  in 
England 

Is  life  and  lungs  to  every  rebel  birth 
That  passes  out  of  embryo. 

Simon  Renard  ! — 
This  Howard,  whom  they  fear,  what  was  he 
saying  ? 

Rena'>^d.  What  your  imperial  father  said, 
my  liege. 

To  deal  with  heresy  gentlier.  Gardiner 
burns. 

And  Bonner  burns  ; and  it  would  seem  this 
people 

Care  more  for  our  brief  life  in  their  wetland, 
I'han  yours  in  happier  Spain.  I told  my 
Lord 

He  should  not  vex  her  Highness ; she  would 
say 

These  are  the  means  God  works  with,  that 
His  church 
May  flourish. 

Fhdip.  Ay,  sir,  but  in  statesmanship 
I'o  strike  too  soon  is  oft  to  miss  the  blow. 
Thou  knowest  I bade  my  chaplain,  Castro, 
preach 

Against  these  burnings. 

Renard.  And  the  Emperor 

Approved  you,  and  w'hen  last  he  wrote,  de- 
clared 

His  comfort  in  your  Grace  that  you  were 
bland 


And  affable  to  men  of  all  estates, 

In  hope  to  charm  them  from  their  hate  of 
Spain. 

Philip.  In  hope  to  crush  all  heresy  under 
Spain. 

But,  Renard,  I am  sicker  staying  here 
Than  any  sea  could  make  me  passing  hence, 
Tho’  I be  ever  deadly  sick  at  sea. 

So  sick  am  I with  biding  for  this  child. 

Is  it  the  fashion  in  this  clime  for  women 
To  go  twelve  months  in  bearing  of  a child  ? 
The  nurses  yawn’d,  the  cradle  gaped,  they 
led 

Processions,  chanted  litanies,  clash’d  their 
bells. 

Shot  off  their  lying  cannon,  and  her  priests 
Have  preach’d,  the  fools,  of  this  fair  prince 
to  come. 

Till,  by  St.  James,  I find  myself  the  fool. 
Why  do  you  lift  your  eyebrow  at  me  thus? 

Renard.  I never  saw  your  Highness 
moved  till  now. 

Philip.  So,  weary  am  I of  this  wet  land 
of  theirs. 

And  every  soul  of  man  that  breathes  there- 
in. 

Renard.  My  liege,  we  must  not  drop  the 
mask  before 

The  masquerade  is  over  — 

Philip.  — Have  I dropt  it  ? 

I have  but  shown  a loathing  face  to  you. 
Who  knew  it  from  the  first. 

Enter  Mary. 

Mary  {aside).  With  Renard.  Still 

Parleying  with  Renard,  all  the  day  with 
Renard, 

And  scarce  a greeting  all  the  day  for  me  — 
And  goes  to-morrow.  \^Exit  Mary. 

Philip  [to  Renard,  who  advances  to 
him).  Well,  sir,  is  there  more? 

Renard  {who  has  perceived  the  Queen). 
May  Simon  Renard  speak  a single 
word  ? 

Philip.  Ay. 

Renard.  And  be  forgiven  for  it  ? 

Philip.  Simon  Renard 

Knows  me  too  well  to  speak  a single  word 
That  could  not  be  forgiven. 

Renard.  Well,  my  liege. 

Your  Grace  hath  a most  chaste  and  loving 
wife. 

Philip.  Why  not?  The  Queen  of  Philip 
should  be  chaste. 

Renard.  Ay,  but,  my  Lord,  you  know 
what  Virgil  sings. 

Woman  is  various  and  most  mutable. 

Philip.  She  play  the  harlot ! never. 

Renard.  No,  sire,  no. 

Not  dream’d  of  by  the  rabidest  Gospeller. 
There  was  a paper  thrown  into  the  palace, 

“ The  King  hath  wearied  of  his  barren 
bride.” 

She  came  upon  it,  read  it,  and  then  rent  it, 
With  all  the  rage  of  one  who  hates  a truth 
He  cannot  but  allow.  Sire,  I would  have 
you  — 


QUEEN 

What  should  I say,  I cannot  pick  my 
words  — 

Be  somewhat  less — majestic  to  your  Queen. 

Philip.  Am  I to  change  my  manners,  Si- 
mon Renard, 

Because  these  islanders  are  brutal  beasts? 

Or  would  you  have  me  turn  a sonneteer, 

And  warble  those  brief-sighted  eyes  of  hers? 

Renard.  Brief-sighted  tho’  they  be,  I have 
seen  them,  sire, 

When  you  perchance  were  trifling  royally 
With  some  fair  dame  of  court,  suddenly  fill 
With  such  fierce  fire  — had  it  been  fire  in- 
deed 

It  would  have  burnt  both  speakers. 

Philip.  Ay,  and  then  ? 

Renard.  Sire,  might  it  not  be  policy  in 
some  matter 

Of  small  importance  now  and  then  to  cede 
A point  to  her  demand  ? 

Philip.  Well,  I am  going. 

Renard.  For  should  her  love,  when  you 
are  gone,  my  liege. 

Witness  these  papers,  there  will  not  be  want- 
ing 

Those  that  will  urge  her  injury  — should  her 
love  — 

And  I have  known  such  women  more  than 
one  — 

Veer  to  the  counterpoint,  and  jealousy 
Hath  in  it  an  alchemic  force  to  fuse 
Almost  into  one  metal  love  and  hate,  — 

And  she  impress  her  wrongs  upon  her  Coun- 
cil, 

And  these  again  upon  her  Parliament  — 

We  are  not  loved  here,  and  would  be  then 
perhaps 

Not  so  well  holpen  in  our  wars  with  France, 
As  else  we  might  be  — here  she  comes. 

Enter  Mary. 

Mary.  O Philip  ! 

Nay,  must  you  go  indeed? 

Philip.  Madam,  I must. 

Mary.  The  parting  of  a husband  and  a 
wife 

Is  like  the  cleaving  of  a heart ; one  half 
Will  flutter  here,  one  there. 

Philip.  You  say  true.  Madam. 

Mary.  The  Holy  Virgin  will  not  have  me 
yet 

Lose  the  sweet  hope  that  I may  bear  a 
prince. 

If  such  a prince  were  born  and  you  not 
here  ! 

Philip.  I should  be  here  if  such  a prince 
were  born. 

Mary.  But  must  you  go  ? 

Philip.  Madam,  you  know  my  father, 
Retiring  into  cloistral  solitude 
To  yield  the  remnant  of  his  years  to  heaven. 
Will  shift  the  yoke  and  weight  of  all  the 
world 

From  off  his  neck  to  mine.  We  meet  at 
Brussels. 

But  since  mine  absence  will  not  be  for  long, 
Your  Majesty  shall  go  to  Dover  with  me. 
And  wait  my  coming  back. 


MARY.  363 

Mary.  To  Dover?  no, 

I am  too  feeble.  I will  go  to  Greenwich, 

So  you  will  have  me  with  you  ; and  there 
watch 

All  that  is  gracious  in  the  breath  of  heaven 

Draw  with  your  sails  from  our  poor  land,  and 
pass 

And  leave  me,  Philip,  with  my  prayers  for 
you. 

Philip.  And  doubtless  I shall  profit  by 
your  prayers. 

Mary.  Methinks  that  would  you  tarry  one 
day  more 

(The  news  was  sudden)  I could  mould  my- 
self 

To  bear  your  going  better ; will  you  do  it? 

Philip.  Madam,  a day  may  sink  or  save  a 
realm. 

Mary.  A day  may  save  a heart  from 
breaking  too. 

Philip.  Well,  Simon  Renard,  shall  we 
stop  a day? 

Renard.  Your  Grace’s  business  will  not 
suffer,  sire. 

For  one  day  more,  so  far  as  I can  tell. 

Philip.  Then  one  day  more  to  please  her 
Majesty. 

Mary.  The  sunshine  sweeps  across  my 
life  again. 

0 if  I knew  you  felt  this  parting,  Philip, 

As  I do  ! 

Philip.  By  St.  James  I do  protest. 

Upon  the  faith  and  honor  of  a Spaniard, 

1 am  vastly  grieved  to  leave  your  Majesty. 

Simon,  is  supper  ready  ? 

Renard.  Ay,  my  liege, 

I saw  the  covers  laying. 

Philip.  Le'c  us  have  it. 

\_Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  — A ROOM  IN  THE 
PALACE. 

Mary,  Cardinal  Pole. 

Mary.  What  have  you  there? 

Pole.  So  please  your  Majesty, 

A long  petition  from  the  foreign  exiles 
To  spare  the  life  of  Cranmer.  Bishop  Thirl- 

by» 

And  my  Lord  Paget  and  Lord  William 
Howard, 

Crave,  in  the  same  cause,  hearing  of  your 
Grace. 

Hath  he  not  written  himself — infatuated  — 
To  sue  you  for  his  life  ? 

Mary.  His  life?  Oh,  no; 

Not  sued  for  that  — he  knows  it  were  in 
vain. 

But  so  much  of  the  anti-papal  leaven 
Works  in  him  yet,  he  hath  prayed  me  not  to 
sully 

Mine  own  prerogative,  and  degrade  the 
realm 

By  seeking  justice  at  a stranger’s  hand 


364  QUEEN  MARY, 


Against  my  natural  subject-  King  and 
Queen, 

To  whom  he  owes  his  loyalty  after  God, 
Shall  these  accuse  him  to  a foreign  prince? 
Death  would  not  grieve  him  more.  I can- 
not be 

True  to  this  realm  of  England  and  the  Pope 
Together,  says  the  heretic. 

Pole.  And  there  errs  ; 

As  he  hath  ever  err’d  thro’  vanity. 

A secular  kingdom  is  but  as  the  body 
Lacking  a soul ; and  in  itself  a beast. 

The  Holy  Father  in  a secular  kingdom 
Is  as  the  soul  descending  out  of  heaven 
Into  a body  generate. 

Mary.  Write  to  him,  then. 

Pole.  I will. 

Mary.  And  sharply,  Pole. 

Pole.  Here  come  the  Cranmerites ! 

Enter  Thirlby,  Lord  Paget,  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard. 

Howard.  Health  to  your  Grace.  Good- 
morrow,  my  Lord  Cardinal ; 

We  make  our  humble  prayer  unto  your 
Grace 

That  Cranmer  may  withdraw  to  foreign  parts, 
Or  into  private  life  within  the  realm. 

In  several  bills  and  declarations.  Madam, 
He  hath  recanted  all  his  heresies. 

Paget.  Ay,  ay  ; if  Bonner  have  not  forged 
the  bills.  [A  side. 

Mary.  Did  not  More  die,  and  Fisher? 
he  must  burn. 

Howard.  He  hath  recanted,  Madam. 
Mary.  The  better  for  him. 

He  bums  in  Purgatory,  not  in  Hell. 
Howard.  Ay,  ay,  your  Grace  ; but  it  was 
never  seen 

That  any  one  recanting  thus  at  full. 

As  Cranmer  hath,  came  to  the  fire  on  earth. 
Mary.  It  will  be  seen  now,  then. 

Thirlby.  O Madam,  Madam  ! 

I thus  implore  you,  low  upon  my  knees. 

To  reach  the  hand  of  mercy  to  my  friend. 

I have  err’d  with  him  ; with  him  I have 
recanted. 

What  human  reason  is  there  why  my  friend 
Should  meet  with  lesser  mercy  than  myself? 

Mary.  My  Lord  of  Ely,  this.  After  a riot 
We  hang  the  leaders,  let  their  following  go. 
Cranmer  is  head  and  father  of  these  heresies, 
New  learning  as  they  call  it ; yea,  may  God 
Forget  me  at  most  need  when  I forget 
Her  foul  divorce  — my  sainted  mother  — 
No!  — 

Howard.  Ay,  ay,  but  mighty  doctors 
doubted  there. 

The  Pope  himself  waver’d ; and  more  than 
one 

Row’d  in  that  galley  — Gardiner  to  wit. 
Whom  truly  I deny  not  to  have  been 
Your  faithful  friend  and  trusty  councillor. 
Hath  not  your  Highness  ever  read  his  book. 
His  tractate  upon  True  Obedience, 

Writ  by  himself  and  Bonner? 

Mary.  I will  take 


Such  order  with  all  bad,  heretical  books 
That  none  shall  hold  them  in  his  house  and 
live, 

Henceforward.  No,  my  Lord. 

Howard.  Then  never  read  it. 

The  truth  is  here.  Your  father  was  a man 
Of  such  colossal  kinghood,  yet  so  courteous, 
Except  when  wroth,  you  scarce  could  meet 
his  eye 

And  hold  your  own  ; and  were  he  wroth 
indeed. 

You  held  it  less,  or  not  at  all.  I say. 

Your  father  had  a will  that  beat  men  down  ; 

Your  father  had  a brain  that  beat  men 
down  — 

Pole.  Not  me,  my  Lord. 

Howard.  No,  for  you  w'ere  not  here  ; 

You  sit  upon  this  fallen  Cranmer’s  throne  ; 

And  it  would  more  become  you,  my  Lord 
Legate, 

To  join  a voice,  so  potent  with  her  Highness,  ' 
To  ours  in  plea  for  Cranmer  than  to  stand 
On  naked  self-assertion.  * 

Mary.  ^ All  your  voices  i 

Are  waves  on  flint.  The  heretic  must  bum.  ; 

Howard.  Yet  once  he  saved  your  Maj-  * 

esty’s  own  life  ; * 

Stood  out  against  the  King  in  your  behalf, 

At  his  own  peril.  x 

Mary.  I know  not  if  he  did  ; ^ 

And  if  he  did  I care  not,  my  Lord  Howard. 

My  life  is  not  so  happy,  no  such  boon,  ^ 

That  I should  spare  to  take  a heretic  priest’s, 

Who  saved  it  or  not  saved.  Why  do  you  vex 
me  ? 

Paget.  Yet  to  save  Cranmer  were  to  save 
the  Church, 

Your  Majesty’s  I mean  ; he  is  effaced,  \ 

Self-blotted  out ; so  wounded  in  his  honor. 

He  can  but  creep  down  into  some  dark  hole  ( 

Like  a hurt  beast,  and  hide  himself  and  die  ; ^ 

But  if  you  burn  him,  — well,  your  Highness  ( 
knows  ^ 

The  saying,  “Martyr’s  blood  — seed  of  the 

Church.”  I 

Mary.  Of  the  true  Church ; but  his  is  ; 

none,  nor  will  be.  \ 

You  are  too  politic  for  me,  my  Lord  Paget. 

And  if  he  have  to  live  so  loath’d  a life, 

It  were  m^ore  merciful  to  burn  him  now. 

Thirlby.  O yet  relent.  O,  Madam,  if  you 
knew  him 

As  I do,  ever  gentle,  and  so  gracious, 

With  all  his  learning  — 

Mary.  Yet  a heretic  still. 

His  learning  makes  his  burning  the  more 
just. 

Thirlby.  So  worshipt  of  all  those  that 
came  across  him  ; 

The  stranger  at  his  hearth, and  all  his  house  — 

Mary.  His  children  and  his  concubine, 
belike. 

Thirlby.  To  do  him  any  wrong  was  to 
beget 

A kindness  from  him,  for  his  heart  was  rich. 

Of  such  fine  mould,  that  if  you  sow-’d  therein 
The  seed  of  Hate,  it  blossom’d  Charity. 


I 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Pole.  “ After  his  kind  it  costs  him  noth- 
ing,” there ’s 

An  old  world  English  adage  to  the  point. 
These  are  but  natural  graces,  my  good 
Bishop, 

Which  in  the  Catholic  garden  are  as  flowers, 
But  on  the  heretic  dunghill  only  weeds. 

Howard.  Such  weeds  make  dunghills 
gracious. 

Mary.  Enough,  my  Lords. 

It  is  God’s  will,  the  Holy  Father’s  will, 

And  Philip’s  will,  and  mine,  that  he  should 
burn. 

He  is  pronounced  anathema. 

Howard.  Farewell,  Madam, 

God  grant  you  ampler  mercy  at  your  call 
Than  you  have  shown  to  Cranmer. 

[Exeunt  Lords. 

Pole.  After  this, 

Your  Grace  will  hardly  care  to  overlook 
This  same  petition  of  the  foreign  exiles. 

For  Cranmer’s  life. 

Mary.  Make  out  the  writ  to-night. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.  — OXFORD.  CRANMER 
IN  PRISON. 

Cranmer.  Last  night,  I dream’d  the 
fagots  were  alight, 

And  that  myself  was  fasten’d  to  the  stake, 
And  found  it  all  a visionary  flame. 

Cool  as  the  light  in  old  decaying  wood ; 

And  then  King  Harry  look’d  from  out  a 
cloud. 

And  bade  me  have  good  Courage;  and  I 
heard 

An  angel  cry,  “there  is  more  joy  in 
Heaven,”  — 

.^nd  after  that,  the  trumpet  of  the  dead. 

[Trumpets  without. 
Why,  there  are  trumpets  blowing  now : what 
is  it? 

Enter  Father  Cole. 

Cole.  Cranmer,  I come  to  question  you 
again  ; 

Have  you  remain’d  in  the  true  Catholic 
Faith 

I left  you  in  ? 

Cranmer.  In  the  true  Catholic  faith. 

By  Heaven’s  grace,  I am  more  and  more 
confirm’d. 

Why  are  the  trumpets  blowing.  Father  Cole  ? 

» Cole.  Cranmer,  it  is  decided  by  the  Coun- 
cil 

That  you  to-day  should  read  your  recanta- 
tion 

Before  the  people  in  St.  Mary’s  Church. 

And  there  be  many  heretics  in  the  town. 
Who  loathe  you  for  your  late  return  to  Rome, 
And  might  assail  you  passing  through  the 
street. 

And  tear  you  piecemeal : so  you  have  a 
guard. 

Cranmer.  Or  seek  to  rescue  me.  I thank 
the  Council. 

Cole.  Do  you  lack  any  money?  . 


365 

Cranmer.  Nay,  why  should  I ? 

The  prison  fare  is  good  enough  for  me. 

Cole.  Ay,  but  to  give  the  poor, 

Cranmer.  Hand  it  me,  then  ! 

I thank  you. 

Cole.  For  a little  space,  farewell ; 

Until  I see  you  in  St.  Mary’s  Church. 

[Exit  Cole. 

Cranmer.  It  is  against  all  precedent  to 
burn 

One  who  recants  ; they  mean  to  pardon  me. 
To  give  the  poor — they  give  the  poor  who 
die. 

Well,  burn  me  or  not  burn  me  I am  fixt; 

It  is  but  a communion,  not  a mass  : 

A holy  supper,  not  a sacrifice  ; 

No  man  can  make  his  Maker  — Villa  Garcia. 

Enter  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.  Pray  you  write  out  this 
paper  for  me,  Cranmer. 

Cranmer.  Have  I not  writ  enough  to  sat- 
isfy you  ? 

Villa  Garcia.  It  is  the  last. 

Cranmer.  Give  it  me,  then. 

[He  writes. 

Villa  Garcia.  ^ N ow  sign. 

Cranmer.  I have  sign’d  enough,  and  I 
will  sign  no  more. 

Villa  Garcia.  It  is  no  more  than  what 
you  have  sign’d  already. 

The  public  form  thereof. 

Cranmer.  It  may  be  so  ; 

I sign  it  with  my  presence,  if  I read  it. 

Villa  Garcia.  But  this  is  idle  of  you. 
Well,  sir,  well, 

You  are  to  beg  the  people  to  pray  for  you ; 
Exhort  them  to  a pure  and  virtuous  life  ; 
Declare  the  Queen’s  right  to  the  throne ; 
confess 

Your  faith  before  all  hearers  ; and  retract 
That  Eucharistic  doctrine  in  your  book. 

Will  you  not  sign  it  now  ? 

Cranmer.  No,  Villa  Garcia, 

I sign  no  more.  Will  they  have  mercy  on  me  ? 
Villa  Garcia.  Have  you  good  hopes  of 
mercy ! So,  farewell.  [Exit. 

Cranmer.  Good  hopes,  not  theirs,  have  I 
that  I am  fixt, 

Fixt  beyond  fall ; however,  in  strange  hours, 
After  the  long  brain-dazing  colloquies, 

And  thousand-times  recurring  argument 
Of  those  two  friars  ever  in  my  prison. 

When  left  alone  in  my  despondency. 

Without  a friend,  a book,  my  faith  would 
seem 

Dead  or  half-drown’d,  or  else  swam  heavily 
Against  the  huge  corruptions  of  the  Church, 
Monsters  of  mistradition,  old  enough 
To  scare  me  into  dreaming,  “what  am  I, 
Cranmer,  against  whole  ages?  ” was  it  so. 

Or  am  I slandering  my  most  inward  friend. 
To  veil  the  fault  of  my  most  outward  foe  — 
The  soft  and  tremulous  coward  in  the  flesh  ? 

0 higher,  holier,  earlier,  purer  church, 

1 have  found  thee  and  not  leave  thee  any 

more. 


366 


QUEEN  MARY, 


/ 


It  is  but  a communion,  not  a mass  — 

No  sacrifice,  but  a life-giviiig  feast  ! 
{IVrites.)  So,  so;  this  will  1 say — thus 
will  I pray.  \_Puts  up  the  paper. 

Enter  Bonner. 

Bonner,  Good-day,  old  friend  ; what,  you 
look  somewhat  worn  : 

And  yet  it  is  a day  to  test  your  health 
Ev’n  at  the  best : I scarce  have  spoken  with 
you 

Since  when  ? — your  degradation.  At  your 
trial 

Never  stood  up  a.  bolder  man  than  you  ; 

You  would  not  cap  the  Pope’s  commis- 
sioner— 

Your  learning,  and  your  stoutness,  and  your 
heresy, 

Dumfounded  half  of  us.  So,  after  that, 

We  had  to  dis-archbishop  and  unlord. 

And  make  you  simple  Cranmer  once  again. 
The  common  barber  dipt  your  hair,  and  I 
Scraped  from  your  finger- points  the  holy  oil ; 
And  worse  than  all,  you  had  to  kneel  to  fne : 
Which  was  not  pleasant  for  you.  Master 
Cranmer. 

Now  you,  that  would  not  recognize  the  Pope, 
And  you,  that  would  not  own  the  Real  Pres- 
ence, 

Have  found  a real  presence  in  the  stake. 
Which  frights  you  back  into  the  ancient 
faith  ; 

And  so  you  have  recanted  to  the  Pope. 

How  are  the  mighty  fallen.  Master  Cran- 
mer 1 

Cranmer.  You  have  been  more  fierce 
against  the  Pope  than  I ; 

But  why  fling  back  the  stone  he  strikes  me 
with?  \_Aside> 

0 Bonner,  if  I ever  did  you  kindness-^ 
Power  hath  been  given  you  to  try  faith  by 

fire  — 

Pray  you,  remembering  how  yourself  have 
changed. 

Be  somewhat  pitiful,  after  I have  gone. 

To  the  poor  flock  — to  w'omen  and  to  chil- 
dren — 

That  when  I was  archbishop  held  with  me. 

Bonner.  Ay  — gentle  as  they  call  you  — 
live  or  die  ! 

"Pitiful  to  this  pitiful  heresy? 

1 must  obey  the  Queen  and  Council,  man. 
Win  thro’  this  day  with  honor  to  yourself. 
And  I ’ll  say  something  for  you  — so  — good- 

by.  \_Exit. 

Cranmer.  This  hard  coarse  man  of  old 
hath  crouch’d  to  me 
Till  I myself  was  half  ashamed  for  him. 

Enter  Thirlby. 

Weep  not,  good  Thirlby. 

Thirlby.  Oh,  my  Lord,  my  Lord ! 

My  heart  is  no  such  block  as  Bonner’s  is : 
Who  would  not  weep  ? 

Cranmer.  Why  do  you  so  my-lord  me, 
Who  am  disgraced  ? 

Thirlby,  On  earth;  but  saved  in  heaven 
By  your  recanting. 


Cranmer.  Will  they  burn  me,  Thirlby? 
Thirlby.  Alas,  they  will ; these  burnings 
will  not  help 

The  purpose  of  the  faith  ; but  my  poor  voice 
Against  them  is  a whisper  to  the  roar 
Of  a spring-tide. 

Cranmer,  And  they  will  surely  burn  me? 
Thirlby.  Ay  ; and  besides,  will  have  you 
in  the  church 

Repeat  your  recantation  in  the  ears 
Of  all  men,  to  the  saving  of  their  souls, 
Before  your  execution.  May  God  help  you 
Thro’  that  hard  hour. 

Cranmer.  And  may  God  bless  you,  Thirl- 
by. 

Well,  they  shall  hear  my  recantation  there. 

[Exit  Thirlby. 
Disgraced,  dishonor’d  ! — not  by  them,  in- 
deed. 

By  mine  own  self — by  mine  own  hand  ! 
O'thin-skinn’d  hand  and  jutting  veins,  ’twas 
you 

That  sign’d  the  burning  of  poor  Joan  of 
Kent  j 

But  then  she  was  a witch.  You  have  writ- 
ten much. 

But  you  were  never  raised  to  plead  for  Frith, 
Whose  dogmas  I have  reach’d : he  was  de- 
liver’d 

To  the  secular  arm  to  burn  ; and  there  was 
Lambert ; 

Who  can  foresee  himself?  truly  these  burn- 
ings. 

As  Thirlby  says,  are  profitless  to  the  burn- 
ers. 

And  help  the  other  side.  You  shall  bum 
too. 

Burn  first  when  I am  burnt. 

Fire  — inch  by  inch  to  die  in  agony  ! Lati- 
mer m 

Had  a brief  end  — not  Ridley.  Hooper 
burn’d 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour.  Will  my  fagots 
Be  w'et  as  his  were?  It  is  a day  of  rain. 

I will  not  muse  upon  it. 

My  fancy  takes  the  burner’s  part,  and  makes 
The  fire  seem  even  crueller  than  it  is. 

No,  I not  doubt  that  God  will  give  me 
strength. 

Albeit  I have  denied  him. 

Enter  Soto  and  Villa  Garcia. 

Villa  Garcia.  We  are  ready 

To  take  you  to  St.  Mary’s,  Master  Cranmer. 
Cranmer.  And  I : lead  on  ; ye  loose  me 
from  my  bonds.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  — ST.  MARY’S  CHURCH. 

Cole  in  the  Pulpit.,  Lord  Williams  of 
Thame  presiding.  Lord  William  How- 
ard, Lord  Paget,  and  others.  Cran- 
mer enters  between  Soto  and  Villa 
Garcia,  and  the  whole  Choir  strike  up 
“ Nunc  Dimittis.^^  Cranmer  is  set  upon 
a Scaffold  before  the  people. 

Cole.  Behold  him  — 

[A  pause  ; people  in  the  foreground. 


QUEEN  MARY, 


367 


People.  Oh,  unhappy  sight ! 

First  Protestatit.  See  how  the  tears  run 
down  his  fatherly  face. 

Second  Protestant.  James,  didst  thou 
ever  see  a carrion  crow 
Stand  watching  a sick  beast  before  he  dies? 
First  Protestant  Him  perch’d  up  there  ? 
I wish  some  thunderbolt 
Would  make  this  Cole  a cinder,  pulpit  and 
all. 

Cole.  Behold  him,  brethren  : he  hath 
cause  to  weep  ! — 

So  have  we  all : weep  with  him  if  ye  will. 
Yet—  ^ 

It  is  expedient  for  one  man  to  die. 

Yea,  for  the  people,  lest  the  people  die. 

Yet  wherefore  should  he  die  that  hath  re- 
turn’d 

To  the  one  Catholic  Universal  Church, 
Repentant  of  his  errors? 

Protestant  Murmurs.  Ay,  tell  us  that. 
Cole.  Those  of  the  wrong  side  will  despise 
the  man, 

Deeming  him  one  that  thro’  the  fear  of  death 
Gave  up  his  cause,  except  he  seal  his  faith 
In  sight  of  all  with  flaming  martyrdom. 
Cranmer.  Ay. 

Cole.  Ye  hear  him,  and  albeit  there  may 
seem 

According  to  the  canons  pardon  due 
To  him  that  so  repents,  yet  are  there  causes 
Wherefore  our  Queen  and  Council  at  this 
time 

Adjudge  him  to  the  death.  He  hath  been 
a traitor, 

A shaker  and  confounder  of  the  realm  ; 

And  when  the  King’s  divorce  was  sued  at 
Rome, 

He  here,  this  heretic  metropolitan. 

As  if  he  had  been  the  Holy  Father,  sat 
And  judged  it.  Did  I call  him  heretic? 

A huge  heresiarch  ! never  was  it  known 
That  any  man  so  writing,  preaching  so. 

So  poisoning  the  Church,  so  long  continuing. 
Hath  found  his  pardon  ; therefore  he  must 
die. 

For  w'arning  and  example. 

Other  reasons 

There  be  for  this  man’s  ending,  which  our 
Queen 

And  Council  at  this  present  deem  it  not 
Expedient  to  be  known. 

Protestatit  Murmurs.  I warrant  you. 
Cole.  Take  therefore,  all,  example  by  this 
man. 

For  if  our  Holy  Queen  not  pardon  him. 
Much  less  shall  others  in  like  cause  escape. 
That  all  of  you,  the  highest  as  the  lowest. 
May  learn  there  is  no  power  against  the 
Lord. 

There  stands  a man,  once  of  so  high  degree, 
Chief  prelate  of  our  Church,  archbishop,  first 
In  Council,  second  person  in  the  realm. 
Friend  for  so  long  time  of  a mighty  King ; 
And  now  ye  see  downfallen  and  debased 
From  councillor  to  caitiff — fallen  so  low. 
The  leprous  flutterings  of  the  byw’ay,  scum 


And  offal  of  the  city  would  not  change 
Estates  with  him  ; in  brief,  so  miserable. 

There  is  no  hope  of  better  left  for  him. 

No  place  for  worse. 

Yet,  Cranmer,  be  thou  glad. 
This  is  the  work  of  God.  He  is  glorified 
In  thy  conversion  : lo  ! thou  art  reclaim’d ; 

He  brings  thee  home  : nor  fear  but  that  to- 
day 

Thou  shalt  receive  the  penitent  thief’s 
award. 

And  be  with  Christ  the  Lord  in  Paradise. 
Remember  how  God  made  the  fierce  fire 
seem 

To  those  three  children  like  a pleasant  dew. 
Remember,  too. 

The  triumph  of  St.  Andrew  on  his  cross. 

The  patience  of  St.  Lawrence  in  the  fire. 

Thus,  if  thou  call  on  God  and  ail  the  saints, 

God  will  beat  down  the  fury  of  the  flame. 

Or  give  thee  saintly  strength  to  undergo. 

And  for  thy  soul  shall  masses  here  be  sung 
By  every  priest  in  Oxford.  Pray  for  him. 
Cranmer.  Ay,  one  and  all,  dear  brothers, 
pray  for  me  ; 

Pray  with  one  breath,  one  heart,  one  soul,  for 
me. 

Cole.  And  now,  lest  any  one  among  you 
doubt 

The  man’s  conversion  and  remorse  of  heart. 
Yourselves  shall  hear  him  speak.  Speak, 
Master  Cranmer, 

Fulfil  your  promise  made  me,  and  proclaim 
Your  true  undoubted  faith,  that  all  may  hear. 
Cranmer.  And  that  I will.  O God, 
Father  of  Heaven  ! 

O Son  of  God,  Redeemer  of  the  world  ! 

0 Holy  Ghost ! proceeding  from  them  both, 
Three  persons  and  one  God,  have  mercy  on 

me. 

Most  miserable  sinner,  wretched  man. 

1 have  offended  against  heaven  and  earth 
More  grievously  than  any  tongue  can  tell. 

Then  whither  should  I flee  for  any  help? 

I am  ashamed  to  lift  my  eyes  to  heaven. 

And  I can  find  no  refuge  upon  earth. 

Shall  I despair  then  ? — God  forbid  ! O God,  • 
For  thou  art  merciful,  refusing  none 
That  come  to  Thee  for  succor,  unto  Thee, 
Therefore,  I come  ; humble  myself  to  Thee  ; 
Saying,  O Lord  God,  although  my  sins  be 
great. 

For  thy  great  mercy  have  mercy  ! O God 
the  Son, 

Not  for  slight  faults  alone,  when  thou  be- 
camest 

Man  in  the  Flesh,  was  the  great  mystery 
wrought ; 

O God  the  Father,  not  for  little  sins 
Didst  thou  yield  up  thy  Son  to  human  death  ; 

But  for  the  greatest  sin  that  can  be  sinn’d. 

Yea,  even  such  as  mine,  incalculable. 
Unpardonable,  — sin  against  the  light. 

The  truth  of  God,  which  I had  proven  and 
known. 

Thy  mercy  must  be  greater  than  all  sin. 

Forgive  me,  Father,  for  no  merit  of  mine. 


368  QUEEN 

But  that  Thy  name  by  man  be  glorified, 

And  Thy  most  blessed  Son’s,  who  died  for 
man. 

Good  people,  every  man  at  time  of  death 
Would  fain  set  forth  some  saying  that  may 
live 

After  his  death  and  better  humankind  ; 

For  death  gives  life’s  last  word  a power  to 
live, 

And,  like  the  stone-cut  epitaph,  remain 
After  the  vanish’d  voice,  and  speak  to  men. 
God  grant  me  grace  to  glorify  my  God  ! 

And  first  I say  it  is  a grievous  case, 

Many  so  dote  upon  this  bubble  world, 

Whose  colors  in  a moment  break  and  fly. 
They  care  for  nothing  else.  What  saith  St. 
John:  — 

“ Love  of  this  world  is  hatred  against  God.” 
Again,  I pray  you  all  that,  next  to  God, 

You  do  unmurmuringly  and  willingly 
Obey  your  King  and  Queen,  and  not  for 
dread 

Of  these  alone,  but  from  the  fear  of  Him 
Whose  ministers  they  be  to  govern  you. 
Thirdly,  I pray  you  all  to  love  together 
Like  brethren  ; yet  what  hatred  Christian 
men 

Bear  to  each  other,  seeming  not  as  brethren. 
But  mortal  foes  ! But  do  you  good  to  all 
As  much  as  in  you  lieth.  Hurt  no  man  more 
Than  you  would  harm  your  loving  natural 
brother 

Of  the  same  roof,  same  breast.  If  any  do. 
Albeit  he  think  himself  at  home  with  God, 

Of  this  be  sure,  he  is  whole  worlds  away. 
Protestant  Murmurs.  What  sort  of  broth- 
ers then  be  those  that  lust 
To  burn  each  other? 

Williams.  Peace  among  you,  there. 

Cranmer.  Fourthly,  to  those  that  own 
exceeding  wealth, 

Remember  that  sore  saying  spoken  once 
By  Him  that  was  the  truth,  “ how  hard  it  is 
For  the  rich  man  to  enter  into  Heaven  ” ; 

Let  all  rich  men  remember  that  hard  word. 

I have  not  time  for  more  : if  ever,  now 
Let  them  flow  forth  in  charity,  seeing  now 
The  poor  so  many,  and  all  food  so  dear. 

Long  have  I lain  in  prison,  yet  have  heard 
Of  all  their  wretchedness.  _ Give  to  the  poor,. 
Ye  give  to  God.  He  is  with  us  in  the  poor. 

And  now,  and  forasmuch  as  I have  come 
To  the  last  end  of  life,  and  thereupon 
Hangs  all  my  past,  and  all  my  life  to  be. 
Either  to  live  with  Christ  in  Heaven  with 
joy, 

Or  to  be  still  in  pain  with  devils  in  hell ; 

And,  seeing  in  a moment,  I shall  find 

[Pointing  upwards. 

Heaven  or  else  hell  ready  to  sw’allow  me, 

[Pointing  downwards. 

I shall  declare  to  you  my  very  faith 
Without  all  color. 

Cole.  Hear  him,  my  good  brethren. 

Cranmer.  I do  believe  in  God,  Father  of 
all; 

In  every  article  of  the  Catholic  faith. 


MARY. 

And  every  syllable  taught  us  by  our  Lord, 
His  prophets,  and  apostles,  in  the  Testa- 
ments, 

Both  Old  and  New. 

Cole.  Be  plainer,  Master  Cranmer. 

Cranmer.  And  now  I come  to  the  great 
cause  that  weighs 

Upon  my  conscience  more  than  any  thing 
Or  said  or  done  in  all  my  life  by  me ; 

For  there  be  writings  I have  set  abroad 
Against  the  truth  I knew  within  my  heart, 
Written  for  fear  of  death,  to  save  my  life. 

If  that  might  be  ; the  papers  by  my  hand 
Sign’d  since  my  degradation  — by  this  hand 
[Holding  out  his  right  hand. 
Written  and  sign’d — 1 here  renounce  them 
all ; 

And,  since  my  hand  offended,  having  written 
Against  my  heart,  my  hand  shall  first  be 
burnt. 

So  I may  come  to  the  fire.  [Dead  silence. 

Protestant  murmurs. 

First  Protestant.  1 knew  it  would  be  so. 

Second  Protestant.  Our  prayers  are 
heard  ! 

Third  Protestant.  God  bless  him  ! 

Catholic  Murmurs.  Out  upon  him  ! out 
upon  him  ! 

Liar  ! dissembler  ! traitor  ! to  the  fire  ! 

Williams  {raising  his  voice).  You  know 
that  you  recanted  all  you  said 
Touching  the  sacrament  in  that  same  book 
You  wrote  against  my  Lord  of  Winchester ; 
Dissemble  not ; play  the  plain  Christian 
man. 

Cranmer.  Alas,  my  Lord, 

I have  been  a man  loved  plainness  all  my 
life; 

I did  dissemble,  but  the  hour  has  come 
For  utter  truth  and  plainness;  wherefore,  I 
say, 

I hold  by  all  I wrote  within  that  book. 
Moreover, 

As  for  the  Pope  I count  him  Antichrist, 
With  all  his  devil’s  doctrines  ; and  refuse. 
Reject  him,  and  abhor  him.  I have  said. 

Cries  {on  all  sides).  Pull  him  dowm ! 
Away  with  him. 

Cole.  Ay,  stop  the  heretic’s  mouth.  Hale 
him  away. 

Williams.  Harm  him  not,  harm  him  not, 
have  him  to  the  fire. 

[Cranmer  goes  out  between  Two  Fri- 
ars, smiling;  hands  are  reached  to 
him  from  the  crowd.  Lord  Wil- 
liam Howard  Lord  PhG^.'vare 
left  alone  in  the  church. 

Paget.  The  nave  and  aisles  all  efnpty  as 
a fool’s  jest ! 

No,  here ’s  Lord  William  Howard.  What, 
my  Lord, 

You  have  not  gone  to  see  the  burning? 

Howard.  Fie ! 

To  stand  at  ease,  and  stare  as  at  a show. 
And  watch  a good  man  burn.  Never  again. 


QUEEN  MARY. 


369 


I saw  the  deaths  of  Latimer  and  Ridley. 
Moreover  tho’  a Catholic,  I would  not, 

For  the  pure  honor  of  our  common  nature, 
Hear  what  1 might  — another  recantation 
Of  Cranmer  at  the  stake. 

Paget.  You ’d  not  hear  that. 

He  pass’d  out  smiling,  and  he  walk’d  up- 
right ; 

His  eye  was  like  a soldier’s,  whom  the  gen- 
eral 

He  looks  to  and  he  leans  on  as  his  God, 
Hath  rated  for  some  backwardness  and 
bidd’n  him 

Charge  one  against  a thousand,  and  the  man 
Hurls  his  soil’d  life  against  tlie  pikes  and 
dies. 

Howard.  Yet  that  he  might  not  after  all 
those  papers 

Of  recantation  yield  again,  who  knows? 

Paget.  Papers  of  recantation,  think  you 
then 

That  Cranmer  read  all  papers  that  he  sign’d? 
Or  sign’d  all  those  they  tell  us  that  he  sign’d  ? 
Nay,  I trow  not : and  you  shall  see,  my 
Lord, 

That  howsoever  hero-like  the  man 
Dies  in  the  fire,  this  Bonner  or  another 
Will  in  some  lying  fashion  misreport 
His  ending  to  the  glory  of  their  church. 

And  you  saw  Latimer  and  Ridley  die  ? 
Latimer  was  eighty,  was  he  not  ? his  best 
Of  life  was  over  then. 

Howard.  His  eighty  years. 

Look’d  somewhat  crooked  on  him  in  his 
frieze  ; 

But  after  they  had  stript  him  to  his  shroud. 
He  stood  upright,  a lad  of  twenty-one. 

And  gather’d  w’ith  his  hands  the  starting 
flame, 

And  wash’d  his  hands  and  all  his  face  there- 
in. 

Until  the  pow^der  suddenly  blew  him  dead. 
Ridley  was  longer  burning  ; but  he  died 
As  manfully  and  boldly,  and  ’fore  God, 

I know'  them  heretics,  but  right  English  ones. 
If  ever,  as  heaven  grant,  we  clash  with  Spain, 
Our  Ridley-soldiers  and  our  Latimer-sailors 
Will  teach  her  something. 

Paget.  Your  mild  Legate  Pole 

Will  tell  you  that  the  devil  helpt  them  thro’ 
it. 

\_A  miirmur  of  the  Crowd  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Hark,  how  those  Roman  wolfdogs  howl  and 
bay  him. 

Howard.  Might  it  not  be  the  other  side 
rejoicing 

In  his  brave  end  ? 

Paget.  They  are  too  crush’d,  too  broken. 
They  can  but  weep  in  silence. 

Howard.  Ay,  ay,  Paget, 

They  have  brought  it  in  large  measure  on 
themselve.s. 

Have  I not  heard  them  mock  the  blessed 
Host 

In  songs  so  lewd,  the  beast  might  roar  his 
claim 


To  being  in  God’s  image,  more  than  they? 
Have  I not  seen  the  gamekeeper,  the  groom, 
Gardener,  and  huntsman,  iii  the  parson's 
place. 

The  parson  from  his  own  spire  swung  out 
dead, 

And  Ignorance  crying  in  the  streets,  and  all 
men 

Regarding  her  ? I say  they  have  drawn  the 
fire 

On  their  own  heads : yet,  Paget,  I do  hold 
I'he  Catholic,  if  he  have  the  greater  right, 
Hath  been  the  crueller. 

Paget.  Action  and  re-action. 

The  miserable  see-saw  of  our  child-world. 
Make  us  despise  it  at  odd  hours,  my  Lord. 
Heaven  help  that  this  re-action  not  re-act. 
Yet  fiercelier  under  Queen  Elizabeth, 

So  that  she  come  to  rule  us. 

Howard.  The  world ’s  mad. 

Paget.  My  Lord,  the  world  is  like  a 
drunken  man. 

Who  cannot  move  straight  to  his  end  — but 
reels 

Now  to  the  right,  then  as  far  to  the  left. 
Push’d  by  the  crowd  beside  — and  under- 
foot 

An  earthquake  ; for  since  Henry  for  a 
doubt  — 

Which  a young  lust  had  clapt  upon  the 
back. 

Crying,  “Forward,”  — set  our  old  church 
rocking,  men 

Have  hardly  known  w'hat  to  believe,  or 
whether 

They  should  believe  in  any  thing ; the  cur- 
rents 

So  shift  and  change,  they  see  not  how  they 
are  borne. 

Nor  whither.  I conclude  the  King  a beast ; 
Verily  a lion  if  you  will  — the  w’orld 
A most  obedient  beast  and  fool  — myself 
Half  beast  and  fool  as  appertaining  to  it ; 
Altho’  your  Lordship  hath  as  little  of  each 
Cleaving  to  your  original  Adam-clay, 

As  may  be  consonant  w'ith  mortality. 

Howard.  We  talk  and  Cranmer  suffers. 
The  kindliest  man  I ever  knew  ; see,  see, 

I speak  of  him  in  the  past.  Unhappy  land  ! 
Hard-natured  Queen,  half  Spanish  in  her- 
self. 

And  grafted  on  the  hard-grain’d  stock  of 
Spain  — 

Her  life,  since  Philip  left  her,  and  she  lost 
Her  fierce  desire  of  bearing  him  a child, 
Hath,  like  a brief  and  bitter  winter's  day, 
Gone  narrowing  down  and  darkening  to  a 
close. 

There  will  be  more  conspiracies,  I fear. 

Paget.  Ay,  ay,  beware  of  France. 

Howard.  O Paget,  Paget ! 

I have  seen  heretics  of  the  poorer  sort. 
Expectant  of  the  rack  from  day  to  day. 

To  whom  the  fire  were  welcome,  lying 
chain’d 

In  breathless  dungeons  over  steaming  sew- 
ers, 


370 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Fed  with  rank  bread  that  crawl’d  upon  the 
tongue, 

And  putrid  water,  every  drop  a worm, 

Until  they  died  of  rotted  limbs  ; and  then 
Cast  on  the  dunghill  naked,  and  become 
Hideously  alive  again  from  head  to  heel. 
Made  even  the  carrion-nosing  mongrel  vomit 
With  hate  and  horror. 

Paget.  Nay,  you  sicken  me 

To  hear  you. 

Howard.  Fancy-sick  ; these  things  are 
done. 

Done  right  against  the  promise  of  this  Queen 
Twice  given. 

Paget.  No  faith  with  heretics,  my  Lord  ! 
H ist ! there  be  two  old  gossips  — Gospellers, 
I take  it  ; stand  behind  the  pillar  here  ; 

I warrant  you  they  talk  about  the  burning. 

Enter  Two  Old  Women.  Joan,  and  after 
her  Tib. 

Joan.  Why,  it  be  Tib. 

Tib.  I cum  behind  tha,  gall,  and  could  n’t 
make  tha  hear.  Eh,  the  wind  and  the  wet  ! 
What  a day,  what  a day  ! nigh  upo’  judg- 
ment daay  loike.  Pwoaps  be  pretty  things, 
Joan,  but  they  wunt  set  i’  the  Lords’  cheer 
o’  that  daay. 

Joan.  I must  set  down  myself,  Tib ; it  be 
a var  waay  vor  my  owld  legs  up  vro’  Islip. 
Eh,  my  rheumatizy  be-that  bad  howiver  be 
I to  win  to  the  burnin’. 

Tib.  I should  saay  ’t  wur  ower  by  now. 
T ’d  ha’  been  here  avore,  but  Dumble  wur 
blow’d  wi’  the  wind,  and  Dumble ’s  the  best 
milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy ’s  as  good  ’z  her. 

Tib.  Noa,  Juan. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy’s  butter ’s  as  good  ’z 
hern. 

Tib  Noa,  Joon. 

Joan.  Our  Daisy’s  cheeses  be  better. 

Tib.  Noa.  Joan. 

Joan.  Eh,  then  ha’  thy  waay  wi’  me, 
Tib  ; ez  thou  hast  wi’  thy  owld  man. 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan,  and  my  owld  man  wur  up 
and  awaay  betimes  wi’  dree  hard  eggs  for  a 
good  pleace  at  the  burnin’  ; and  barrin’  the 
wet,  Hodge  ’ud  ha’  been  a-harrowin’  o’ 
white  peasen  i’  the  outfield  — and  barrin’  the 
w'ind,  Dumble  wur  blow’d  wi’  the  wind,  so  ’z 
we  was  forced  to  stick  her,  but  we  fetched 
her  round  at  last.  Thank  the  Lord  there- 
vore.  Dumble ’s  the  best  milcher  in  Islip. 

Joan.  Thou ’s  thy  way  wi’  man  and  beast, 
Tib.  I wonder  at  tha’,  it  beats  me  ! Eh, 
but  I do  know  ez  Pwoaps  and  vires  be  bad 
things  ; tell  ’ee  now,  I heerd  summat  as 
summun  towld  summun  o’  owld  Bishop 
Gardiner’s  end;  there  wur  an  owld  lord  a-cum 
to  dine  wi’  un,  and  a wur  so  owld  a could  n’t 
bide  vor  his  dinner,  but  a had  to  bide  how- 
somiver,  vor  “I  wunt  dine,”  says  my  Lord 
Bishop,  says  he,  “ not  till  I hears  ez  Lati- 
mer and  Ridley  be  a-vire  ” ; and  so  they 
bided  on  and  on  till  vour  o’  the  clock,  till 
his  man  cum  in  post  vro’  here,  and  tells  un 


ez  the  vire  has  tuk  holt,  “ Now,”  says  the 
bishop,  says  he,  “we’ll  gwo  to  dinner”; 
and  the  owld  lord  fell  to ’s  meat  wi’  a will, 
God  bless  un  ; but  Gardiner  wur  struck  down 
like  by  the  hand  o’  God  avore  a could  taste 
a mossel,  and  a set  him  all  a-vire,  so  ’z  the 
tongue  on  un  cum  a-lolluping  out  o’  ’is 
mouth  as  black  as  a rat.  Thank  the  Lord, 
therevore. 

Paget.  The  fools ! 

Tib.  Ay,  Joan  ; and  Queen  Mary  gwoes 
on  a-burnin’  and  a burnin’,  to  git  her  baaby 
born  ; but  all  her  burnin’s  ’ill  never  burn  out 
the  hypocrisy  that  makes  the  water  in  her. 
There ’s  nought  but  the  vire  of  God’s  hell  ez 
can  burn  out  that. 

Joan.  Thank  the  Lord,  therevore. 

Paget.  The  fools  ! 

Tib.  A burnin’,  and  a-burnin’,  and  a- 
makin’  o’  volk  madder  and  madder  ; but  tek 
thou  my  word  vor ’t,  Joan  — and  I bean’t 
wrong  not  tw'ice  i’  ten  year  — the  burnin’  o’ 
the  owld  archbishop  ’ill  burn  the  Pwoap  out 
o’  this  ’ere  land  vor  iver  and  iver. 

Howard.  Out  of  the  church,  you  brace  of 
cursed  crones. 

Or  I will  have  you  duck’d.  {Women  httrry 
out.)  Said  I not  right? 

For  how  should  reverend  prelate  or  throned 
prince 

Brook  for  an  hour  such  brute  malignity  ? 

Ah,  what  an  acrid  wine  has  Luther  brew’d  ! 
Paget.  Pooh,  pooh,  my  Lord  ! poor  gar- 
rulous country-wives. 

Buy  you  their  cheeses,  and  they  ’ll  side  wdth 
you  ; 

You  cannot  judge  the  liquor  from  the  lees. 
Howard.  I think  that  in  some  sort  we 
may.  But  see, 

Efiter  Peters. 

Peters,  my  gentleman,  an  honest  Catholic, 
Who  follow’d  with  the  crowd  to  Cranmer’s 
fire. 

One  that  would  neither  misreport  nor  lie. 
Not  to  gain  paradise  : ro,  nor  if  the  Pope 
Charged  him  to  do  it  — he  is  white  as  death. 
Peters,  how  pale  you  look  ! you  bring  the 
smoke 

Of  Crat  mer’s  burning  with  you. 

Peters.  Tw'ice  or  thrice 

The  smoke  of  Cranmer’s  burning  wrapt  me 
round. 

Howard.  Peters,  you  know  me  Catholic, 
but  English. 

Did  he  die  bravely?  Tell  me  that,  or  leave 
All  else  untold. 

Peters.  Mv  Lord,  he  died  most  bravelj'. 
Howard.  Then  tell  me  all. 

Paget.  Ay,  Master  Peters,  tell  us. 

Peters.  You  saw  him  how’  he  past  among 
the  crowd  ; 

And  ever  as  he  walk’d  the  Spanish  friars 
Still  plied  him  wfith  entreaty  and  reproach  : 
But  Cranmer,  as  the  helmsman  at  the  helm 
Steers,  ever  looking  to  the  happy  haven 
Where  he  shall  rest  at  night,  moved  to  his 
death ; 


QUEEN  MARK  371 


And  I could  see  that  many  silent  bands 
Came  from  the  crowd  and  met  his  own  ; and 
thus, 

When  we  had  come  where  Ridley  burnt  with 
Latimer, 

He,  with  a cheerful  smile,  as  one  whose  mind 
Is  all  made  up,  in  haste  put  off  the  rags 
They  had  mock’d  his  misery  with,  and  all  in 
white, 

His  long  white  beard,  which  he  had  never 
shaven 

Since  Henry’s  death,  down-sweeping  to  the 
chain. 

Wherewith  they  bound  him  to  the  stake,  he 
stood. 

More  like  an  ancient  father  of  the  Church, 
Than  heretic  of  these  times ; and  still  the 
friars 

Plied  him,  but  Cranmer  only  shook  his  head. 
Or  answer’d  them  in  smiling  negatives ; 
Whereat  Lord  Williams  gave  a sudden  cry: — 
“Make  short!  make  short  I”  and  so  they  lit 
the  wood. 

Then  Cranmer  lifted  his  left  hand  to  heaven, 
And  thrust  his  right  into  the  bitter  flame  ; 
And  crying,  in  his  deep  voice,  more  than 
once, 

“ This  hath  offended  — this  unworthy 
hand  I ” 

So  held  it  till  it  all  was  burn’d,  before 
The  flame  had  reach’d  his  body ; I stood 
near  — 

Mark’d  him  — he  never  uttered  moan  of 
pain  : 

He  never  stirr’d  or  writhed,  but,  like  a statue, 
Unmoving  in  the  greatness  of  the  flame. 
Gave  up  the  ghost ; and  so  past  martyr- 
like— 

Martyr  I may  not  call  him  — past  — but 
whither? 

Paget.  To  purgatory,  man,  to  purgatory. 

Peters,  Nay,  but,  my  Lord,  he  denied 
purgatory. 

Paget.  Why  then  to  heaven,  and  God 
ha’  mercy  on  him. 

Howard.  Paget,  despite  his  fearful  her- 
esies, 

I loved  the  man,  and  needs  must  moan  for 
him ; 

0 Cranmer ! 

Paget.  But  your  moan  is  useless  now : 
Come  out,  my  Lord,  it  is  a world  of  fools. 

, [Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.  — LONDON.  HALL  IN 
THE  PALACE. 

Queen,  Sir  Nicholas  Heath. 

Heath.  Madam, 

1 do  assure  you,  that  it  must  be  look’d  to  : 
Calais  is  but  ill-garrison’d,  in  Guisnes 

Are  scarce  two  hundred  men,  and  the  French 
fleet 

Rule  in  the  narrow  seas.  It  must  be  look’d 

to, 


If  war  should  fall  between  yourself  and 
France  ; 

Or  you  will  lose  your  Calais. 

Mary.  It  shall  be  look’d  to ; 

I wish  you  a good-morning,  good  Sir 
Nicholas  : 

Here  is  the  King.  [Exit  Heath. 

Enter  Philip. 

Philip.  Sir  Nicholas  tells  you  true, 

And  you  must  look  to  Calais  when  I go. 

Mary.  Go ! must  you  go,  indeed  — 
again  — so  soon  ? 

Why,  nature’s  licensed  vagabond,  the 
swallow. 

That  might  live  always  in  the  sun’s  warm 
heart. 

Stays  longer  here  in  our  poor  north  than 
you  : — 

Knows  where  he  nested  — ever  comes  again. 

Philip.  And,  Madam,  so  shall  I. 

Mary.  O,  will  you  ? will  you  ? 

I am  faint  with  fear  that  you  will  come  no 
more. 

Philip.  Ay,  ay ; but  many  voices  call  me 
hence. 

Mary.  Voices  — I hear  unhappy  ru- 
mors — nay, 

I say  not,  I believe.  What  voices  call  you 
Dearer  than  mine  that  should  be  dearest  to 
you? 

Alas,  my  Lord  I what  voices  and  how  many  ? 

Philip.  The  voices  of  Castile  and  Ara- 
SO”’ 

Granada,  Naples,  Sicily,  and  Milan, — 

The  voices  of  Franche-Comte,  and  the  Neth- 
erlands, 

The  voices  of  Peru  and  Mexico, 

Tunis,  and  Oran,  and  the  Philippines, 

And  all  the  fair  spice-islands  of  the  East. 

Mary  {admiringly).  You  are  the  might- 
iest monarch  upon  earth, 

I but  a little  Queen  ; and  so,  indeed. 

Need  you  the  more;  and  wherefore  could 
you  not 

Helm  the  huge  vessel  of  your  state,  my 
liege. 

Here,  by  the  side  of  her  who  loves  you 
most  ? 

Philip.  No,  Madam,  no  ! a candle  in  the 
sun 

Is  all  but  smoke  — a star  beside  the  moon 
Is  all  but  lost ; your  people  will  not  crown 
me  — 

Your  people  are  as  cheerless  as  your  clime  ; 
Hate  me  and  mine  : witness  the  brawls,  the 
gibbets. 

Here  swings  a Spaniard  — there  an  English- 
man  ; 

The  peoples  are  unlike  as  their  complexion  ; 
Yet  will  I be  your  swallow  and  return  — 

But  now  I cannot  bide. 

Mary.  Not  to  help  me  ? 

They  hate  me  also  for  my  love  to  you, 

My  Philip ; and  these  judgments  on  the 
land  — 

Harvestless  autumns,  horrible  agues, 
plague  — 


372 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Philip.  The  blood  and  - sweat  of  heretics 
at  the  stake 

Is  God’s  best  dew  upon  the  barren  field. 
Burn  more  ! 

Mary.  I will,  I will ; and  you  will  stay. 

Philip.  Have  I not  said  ? Madam,  I came 
to  sue 

Your  Council  and  yourself  to  declare  war. 

Mary.  Sir,  there  are  many  English  in 
your  ranks 
To  help  your  battle. 

Philip.  ■ So  far,  good.  I say 

I came  to  sue  your  Council  and  yourself 
To  declare  war  against  the  King  of  F ranee. 

Mary.  Not  to  see  me? 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  to  see  you. 

Unalterably  and  pesteringly  fond  ! \_Aside. 
But,  soon  or  late  you  must  have  war  with 
France ; 

King  Henry  warms  your  traitors  at  his 
hearth. 

Carew  is  there,  and  Thomas  Stafford  there. 
Courtenay,  belike  — 

Mary.  A fool  and  featherhead  ! 

Philip.  Ay,  but  they  use  his  name.  In 
brief,  this  Henry 

Stirs  up  your  land  against  you  to  the  intent 
That  you  may  lose  your  English  heritage. 
And  then,  your  Scottish  namesake  marrying 
The  Dauphin,  he  would  weld  France,  Eng- 
land, Scotland, 

Into  one  sword  to  hack  at  Spain  and  i»e» 

Mary.  And  yet  the  Pope  is  now  col- 
leagued  with  France  ; • 

You  make  your  wars  upon  him  down  in 
Italy  : — 

Philip,  can  that  be  well? 

Philip.  Content  you,  Madam  ; 

You  must  abide  my  judgment,  and  my  fa- 
ther’s, 

Who  deems  it  a most  just  and  holy  war. 

The  Pope  would  cast  the  Spaniard  out  of 
Naples : 

He  calls  us  worse  than  Jews,  Moors,  Sara- 
cens. 

The  Pope  has  push’d  his  horns  beyond  his 
mitre  — 

Beyond  his  province.  Now, 

Duke  Alva  will  but  touch  him  on  the  horns. 
And  he  withdraws  ; and  of  his  holy  head  — 
F or  Alva  is  true  son  of  the  true  church  — 
No  hair  is  harm’d.  Will  you  not  help  me 
here  ? 

Mary.  Alas ! the  Council  will  not  hear  of 
war. 

They  say  your  wars  are  not  the  wars  of 
England. 

They  will  not  lay  more  taxes  on  a land 
So  hunger-nipt  and  wretched ; and  you  know 
The  crown  is  poor.  We  have  given  the 
church-lands  back  : 

The  nobles  would  not ; nay,  they  clapt  their 
hands 

Upon  their  swords  when  ask’d ; and  there- 
fore God 

Is  hard  upon  the  people.  What ’s  to  be 
done? 


Sir,  I will  move  them  in  your  cause  again. 

And  we  will  raise  us  loans  and  subsidies 

Among  the  merchants;  and  Sir  Thomas 
Gresham 

Will  aid  us.  There  is  Antwerp  and  the 
Jews. 

Philip.  Madam,  my  thanks. 

Mary.  And  you  will  stay  your  going? 

Philip.  And  further  to  discourage  and 
lay  lame 

The  plots  of  France,  altho’  you  love  her  not. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 

She  stands  between  you  and  the  Queen  of 
Scots. 

Mary.  The  Queen  of  Scots  at  least  is 
Catholic. 

Philip.  Ay,  Madam,  Catholic  ; but  I will 
not  have 

The  King  of  France  the  King  of  England 
too. 

Mary.  But  she ’s  a heretic,  and,  when  I 
am  gone. 

Brings  the  new  learning  back. 

Philip.  It  must  be  done. 

You  must  proclaim  Elizabeth  your  heir. 

Mary.  Then  it  is  done  ; but  you  will  stay 
your  going 

Somewhat  beyond  your  settled  purpose? 
Philip.  No ! 

Mary.  What,  not  one  day  ? 

Philip.  You  beat  upon  the  rock. 

Mary.  And  I am  broken  there.  _ 

Philip.  Is  this  a place 

To  wail  in,  Madam?  what ! a public  hall. 

Go  in,  I pray  you. 

Mary.  Do  not  seem  so  changed. 

Say  go  ; but  only  say  it  lovingly. 

Philip.  You  do  mistake.  I am  not  one 
to  change. 

I never  loved  you  more. 

Mary.  Sire,  I obey  you. 

Come  quickly. 

Philip.  Ay.  \Exit  Mary. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria. 

Feria  (aside).  The  Queen  in  tears. 

Philip.  Feria ! 

Hast  thou  not  mark’d  — come  closer  to 
mine  ear  — 

How  doubly  aged  this  Queen  of  ours  hath 
grown 

Since  she  lost  hope  of  bearing  us  a child?  ^ 

Feria.  Sire,  if  your  Grace  hath  mark’d  it, 
so  have  I. 

Philip.  Hast  thou  not  likewise  mark’d 
Elizabeth, 

How  fair  and  royal  — like  a Queen,  indeed? 

Feria.  Allow  me  the  same  answer  as  be- 
fore— 

That  if  your  Grace  hath  mark’d  her,  so 
have  I. 

Philip.  Good,  now ; methinks  my  Queen 
is  like  enough 

To  leave  me  by  and  bj\ 

Feria.  To  leave  you,  sire  ? 

Philip.  I mean  not  like  to  live.  Eliza- 
beth — 


To  Philibert  of  Savoy,  as  you  know, 

We  meant  to  wed  her ; but  I am  not  sure 
She  will  not  serve  me  better  — so  my  Queen 
Would  leave  me  — as  — my  wife. 

Feria.  Sire,  even  so. 

Philip.  She  will  not  have  Prince  Phili- 
bert of  Savoy. 

Feria.  N o,  sire. 

Philip.  I have  to  pray  you,  some  odd 
time. 

To  sound  the  Princess  carelessly  on  this ; 
Not  as  from  me,  but  as  your  fantasy  ; 

And  tell  me  how  she  takes  it. 

Feria.  Sire,  I will. 

Philip.  I am  not  certain  but  that  Phili- 
bert 

Shall  be  the  man  ; and  I shall  urge  his  suit 
Upon  the  Queen,  because  I am  not'certain  : 
You  understand,  Feria. 

Feria.  Sire,  I do. 

Philip.  And  if  you  be  not  secret  in  this 
♦ matter. 

You  understand  me  there,  too  ? 

Feria.  Sire,  I do. 

Philip.  You  must  be  sweet  and  supple, 
like  a Frenchman. 

She  is  none  of  those  who  loathe  the  honey- 
comb. \_Exit  Feria. 

Enter  Renard. 

Renard.  My  liege,  I bring  you  goodly 
tidings. 

Philip.  Well. 

Renard.  There  w/// be  war  with  France, 
at  last,  my  liege  ; 

Sir  Thomas  Stafford,  a bull-headed  ass. 
Sailing  from  France,  with  thirty  English- 
men, 

Hath  taken  Scarboro’  Castle,  north  of  York  ; 
Proclaims  himself  protector,  and  affirms 
The  Queen  has  forfeited  her  right  to  reign 
By  marriage  with  an  alien — ^^other  things 
As  idle  ; a w-eak  Wyatt ! Little  doubt 
This  buzz  will  soon  be  silenced  ! but  the 
Council 

(I  have  talk’d  with  some  already)  are  for 
war. 

This  is  the  fifth  conspiracy  hatch’d  in 
France  ; 

They  show  their  teeth  upon  it ; and  your 
Grace, 

So  you  will  take  advice  of  mine,  should  stay 
Yet  for  a while,  to  shape  and  guide  the  event. 
Philip.  Good  ! Renard,  1 will  stay  then. 
Renard.  Also,  sire. 

Might  I not  say  — to  please  your  wife,  the 
Queen  ? 

Philip.  Ay,  Renard,  if  you  care  to  put  it 
so.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  — A ROOM  IN  THE  PAL- 
ACE. 

Mary  and  Cardinal  Pole.  Lady  Clar- 
ence and  Alice  in  the  background. 
Mary.  Reginald  Pole,  what  news  hath 
plagued  thy  heart? 

What  makes  thy  favor  like  the  bloodless  head 


MA  R Y.  373 

Fall’n  on  the  block,  and  held  up  by  the  hair? 
Philip?  — 

Pole.  No,  Philip  is  as  warm  in  life 
As  ever. 

Mary.  Ay,  and  then  as  cold  as  ever. 

Is  Calais  taken  ? 

Pole.  Cousin,  there  hath  chanced 

A sharper  harm  to  England  and  to  Rome, 
Than  Calais  taken.  Julius  the  Third 
Was  ever  just,  and  mild,  and  fatherlike  ; 

But  this  new  Pope  Caraffa,  Paul  the  Fourth, 
Not  only  reft  me  of  that  legateship 
Which  Julius  gave  me,  and  the  legateship 
Annex’d  to  Canterbury  — nay,  but  worse  — 
And  yet  1 must  obey  the  holy  father. 

And  so  must  you,  good  cousin  ; — worse  than 
all, 

A passing  bell  toll’d  in  a dying  ear  — 

He  hath  cited  me  to  Rome,  for  heresy, 
Before  his  Inquisition. 

Mary.  I knew  it,  cousin. 

But  held  from  you  all  papers  sent  by  Rome, 
That  you  might  rest  among  us,  till  ihe 
Pope, 

To  compass  which  I wrote  myself  to  Rome, 
Reversed  his  doom,  and  that  you  might  not 
seem 

To  disobey  his  Holiness. 

Pole.  He  hates  Philip  ; 

He  is  all  Italian,  and  he  hates  the  Spaniard; 
He  cannot  dream  that  / advised  the  war ; 
He  strikes  thro’  me  at  Philip  and  yourself. 
Nay,  but  I know  it  of  old,  he  hates  me  too  ; 
So  brands  me  in  the  stare  of  Christendom 
A heretic  ! 

Now,  even  now,  when  bow’d  before  my  time. 
The  house  half-ruin’d  ere  the  lease  be  out ; 
When  I should  guide  the  Church  in  peace  at 
home. 

After  my  twenty  years  of  banishment. 

And  all  my  lifelong  labor  to  uphold 
The  primacy  — a heretic.  Long  ago, 

When  I was  ruler  in  the  patrimony, 

I was  too  lenient  to  the  Lutheran, 

And  I and  learned  friends  among  ourselves 
Would  freely  canvass  certain  Lutheranisins. 
What  then,  he  knew  I was  no  Lutheran. 

A heretic  ! 

He  drew  this  shaft  against  me  to  the  head, 
When  it  was  thought  I might  be  chosen 
Pope, 

But  then  withdrew  it.  In  full  consistory, 
When  I was  made  Archbishop,  he  approved 
me. 

And  how  should  he  have  sent  me  Legale 
hither, 

Deeming  me  heretic  ? and  what  heresy  since  ? 
But  he  was  evermore  mine  enemy. 

And  hates  the  Spaniard — fiery-choleric, 

A drinker  of  black,  strong,  volcanic  wines, 
That  ever  make  him  fierier.  I,  a heretic  ! 
Your  Highness  knows  that  in  pursuing  heresy 
I have  gone  beyond  your  late  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, — 

He  cried  Enough  ! enough  ! before  his 
death.  — 

Gone  beyond  him  and  mine  own  natural  man 


374 


QUEEN  MARY. 


(It  was  God’s  cause) ; so  far  they  call  me  now, 
The  scourge  and  butcher  of  their  English 
church. 

Mary.  Have  courage,  your  reward  is 
Heaven  itself. 

Pole.  They  groan  amen  ; they  swarm  into 
the  fire 

Like  flies — for  what?  no  dogma.  They  know 
nothing, 

They  burn  for  nothing. 

Mary.  You,  have  done  your  best. 

Pole.  Have  done  my  best,  and  as  a faith- 
ful son. 

That  all  day  long  hath  wrought  his  father’s 
work, 

When  back  he  comes  at  evening  hath  the 
door 

Shut  on  him  by  the  father  whom  he  loved. 
His  early  follies  cast  into  his  teeth, 

And  the  poor  son  turn’d  out  into  the  street 
To  sleep,  to  die  — I shall  die  of  it,  cousin. 

Mary.  I pray  you  be  not  so  disconsolate ; 
I still  will  do  mine  utmost  with  the  Pope. 
Poor  cousin. 

Have  I not  been  the  fast  friend  of  your  life 
Since  mine  began,  and  it  was  thought  we  two 
Might  make  one  flesh,  and  cleave  unto  each 
other 

As  man  and  wife. 

Pole-  Ah,  cousin,  I remember 

How  I would  dandle  you  upon  my  knee 
At  lisping-age.  I watch’d  you  dancing  once 
With  your  huge  father ; he  look’d  the  Great 
Harry, 

You  but  his  cockboat ; prettily  you  did  it. 
And  innocently.  No  — we  were  not  made 
One  flesh  in  happiness,  no  happiness  here  ; 
But  now  we  are  made  one  flesh  in  misery  ; 
Our  bridemaids  are  not  lovely  — Disappoint- 
ment, 

Ingratitude,  Injustice,  Evil-tongue, 
Labor-in-vain. 

Mary.  Surely,  not  all  in  vain. 

Peace,  cousin,  peace  ! I am  sad  at  heart 
myself. 

Pole.  Our  altar  is  a mound  of  dead  men’s 
clay, 

Dug  from  the  grave  that  yawns  for  us  be- 
yond ; 

And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind  the 
Groom, 

And  there  is  one  Death  stands  behind  the 
Bride  — 

I Mary.  Have  you  been  looking  at  the 
“Dance  of  Death”? 

Pole.  No ; but  these  libellous  papers 
which  I found 

Strewn  in  your  palace.  Look  you  here  — 
the  Pope 

Pointing  at  me  with  “ Pole,  the  heretic. 
Thou  hast  burnt  others,  do  thou  burn  thyself, 
Or  I will  burn  thee  ” and  this  other  ; see  ! — 
“ We  pray  continually  for  the  death 
Of  our  accursed  Queen  and  Cardinal  Pole.” 
This  last — I dare  not  read  it  her.  \ A side. 

Mary.  Away ! 

Why  do  you  bring  me  these? 


I thought  you  knew  me  better.  I never 
read, 

I tear  them  ; they  come  back  upon  my 
dreams. 

The  hands  that  write  them  should  be  burnt 
clean  off 

As  Cranmer’s,  and  the  fiends  that  utter  them 
Tongue-torn  with  pincers,  lash’d  to  death,  or 
lie 

Famishing  in  black  cells,  while  famish’d 
rats 

Eat  them  alive.  Why  do  they  bring  me 
these  ? 

Do  you  mean  to  drive  me  mad? 

P'ole-  I had  forgotten 

How  these  poor  libels  trouble  you.  Your 
pardon 

Sweet  cousin,  and  farewell ! “ O bubble 
world, 

Whose  colors  in  a moment  break  and  fly  ! ” ^ 

Why,  who  said  that?  I know  not  — true 
enough  ! 

\_Puts  Mp  the  papers.,  all  hut  the  last^  ' 

which  falls.  Exit  Pole.  ^ ’ 

Alice.  If  Cranmer’s  spirit  were  a mocking  I 

one,  { 

And  heard  these  two,  there  might  be  sport 
for  him.  [A  side. 

Mary.  Clarence,  they  hate  me ; even  \ 

while  I speak  j 

There  lurks  a silent  dagger,  listening 
In  some  dark  closet,  some  long  gallery,  1 

drawn,  • 

And  panting  for  my  blood  as  I go  by. 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  Madam,  there  be  J 

loyal  papers  too,  i 

And  I have  often  found  them.  J 

Mary.  Find  me  one  ! » 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  Madam  ; but  Sir 

Nicholas  Heath,  the  Chancellor,  ' 

Would  see  your  Highness. 

Mary.  Wherefore  should  I see  him? 

Lady  Clarence.  Well,  Madam,  he  may 
bring  you  news  from  Philip. 

Mary.  So,  Clarence.  i 

Lady  Clarence.  Let  me  first  put  up  your 

hair ; | 

It  tumbles  all  abroad.  9 

Mary.  And  the  gray  dawn  || 

Of  an  old  age  that  never  will  be  mine 
Is  all  the  clearer  seen.  No,  no  ; what  mat- 
ters ? < 

Forlorn  I am,  and  let  me  look  forlorn.  I 

Enter  Sir  Nicholas  Heath.  t, 

Heath.  I bring  your  Majesty  such  griev-  I 

ous  news  _ f 

I grieve  to  bring  it.  Madam,  Calais  is  taken.  f 

Mary.  What  traitor  spoke  ? Here,  let  my  i 

cousin  Pole  j 

Seize  him  and  burn  him  for  a Lutheran.  i 

Heath.  Her  Highness  is  unwell.  I will 

retire.  J ■ 

Lady  Clarence.  Madam,  your  chancellor,  |,j 

Sir  Nicholas  Heath.  ^ 

Mary.  Sir  Nicholas?  I am  stunn’d— 

Nicholas  Heath?  - f 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Methought  some  traitor  smote  me  on  the 
head. 

What  said  you,  my  good  Lord,  that  our 
brave  English 

Had  sallied  out  from  Calais  and  driven  back 
The  Frenchmen  from  their  trenches? 

Heath.  Alas  ! no. 

That  gateway  to  the  mainland  over  which 
Our  flag  hath  floated  for  two  hundred  years 
Is  France  again. 

Mary.  So  ; but  it  is  not  lost  — 

Not  yet.  Sead  out : let  England  as  of  old 
Rise  lionlike,  strike  hard  and  deep  into 
The  prey  they  are  rending  from  her  — ay, 
and  rend 

The  renders  too.  Send  out,  send  out,  and 
make 

Musters  in  all  the  counties  ; gather  all 
From  sixteen  years  to  sixty  ; collect  the  fleet; 
Let  every  craft  that  carries  sail  and  gun 
Steer  toward  Calais.  Guisnes  is  not  taken 
yet  ? 

Heath.  Guisnes  is  not  taken  yet. 

Mary.  There  yet  is  hope. 

Heath.  Ah,  Madam,  but  your  people  are 
so  cold ; 

I do  much  fear  that  England  will  not  care. 
Methinks  there  is  no  manhood  left  among 
us. 

Mary.  Send  out ; I am  too  weak  to  stir 
abroad ; 

Tell  my  mind  to  the  Council  — to  the  Par- 
liament ; 

Proclaim  it  to  the  winds.  Thou  art  cold 
thyself 

To  babble  of  their  coldness.  O would  I 
were 

My  father  for  an  hour  ! Away  now  — quick  ! 

[Exit  Heath. 
I hoped  I had  served  God  with  all  my 
might ! 

It  seems  1 have  not.  Ah  ! much  heresy 
Shelter’d  in  Calais.  Saints,  I have  rebuilt 
Your  shrines,  set  up  your  broken  images  ; 

Be  comfortable  to  me.  Suffer  not 
That  my  brief  reign  in  England  be  defamed 
Thro’  all  her  angry  chronicles  hereafter 
By  loss  of  Calais.  Grant  me  Calais.  Philip, 
We  have  made  war  upon  the  Holy  Father 
All  for  your  sake  : what  good  cbuld  come  of 
that  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam,  not  against 
the  Holy  Father; 

You  did  but  help  King  Philip’s  war  with 
France. 

Your  troops  w’ere  never  down  in  Italy. 

Mary.  I am  a byword.  Heretic  and  rebel 
Point  at  me  and  make  merry.  Philip  gone  ! 
And  Calais  gone  ! Time  that  I were  gone 
too  ! 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  if  the  fetid  gutter 
had  a voice 

And  cried  I was  not  clean,  what  should  I 
care  ? 

Or  you,  for  heretic  cries?  And  I believe, 
Spite  of  your  melancholy  Sir  Nicholas, 

Your  England  is  as  loyal  as  myself. 


375 

Mary  {seeing  the  paper  dr  opt  by  Pole). 
There,  there  ! another  paper  ! Said 
you  not 

Many  of  these  were  loyal  ? Shall  I try 

If  this  be  one  of  such  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Let  it  be,  let  it  be. 

God  pardon  me  ! I have  never  yet  found 
one.  [A  side. 

Mary  {reads).  “ Your  people  hate  you  as 
your  husband  hates  you.” 

Clarence,  Clarence,  what  have  I done?  what 
sin 

Beyond  all  grace,  all  pardon?  Mother  of 
God, 

Thou  knowest  never  woman  meant  so  well. 

And  fared  so  ill  in  this  disastrous  world. 

My  people  hate  me  and  desire  my  death. 

Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam,  no. 

Mary.  My  husband  hates  me,  and  desires 
my  death. 

Lady  Clarence.  No,  Madam  ; these  are 
libels. 

Mary.  I hate  myself,  and  I desire  my 
death. 

Lady  Clarence.  Long  live  your  Majesty  ! 
Shall  Alice  sing  you 

One  of  her  pleasant  songs?  Alice,  my  child. 

Bring  us  your  lute.  (Alice  goes.)  They 
say  the  gloom  of  Saul 

Was  lighten’d  by  young  David’s  harp. 

Mary.  Too  young ! 

And  never  knew  a Philip.  {Re-enter Aiaqk.) 
Give  me  the  lute. 

He  hates  me ! 

{She  sings.) 

Hapless  doom  of  woman,  happy  in  betrothing ! 

Beauty  passes  like  a breath  and  love  is  lost  in 
loathing : 

Low,  my  lute ; speak  low,  my  lute,  but  say  the 
world  is  nothing  — 

Low,  lute,  low ! 

Love  will  hover  round  the  flowers  when  they  first 
awaken  ; 

Love  will  fly  the  fallen  leaf,  and  not  be  overtaken  ; 

Low,  my  lute  ! oh  low,  my  lute  ! we  fade  and  are 
forsaken  — 

Low,  dear  lute,  low  ! 

Take  it  away ! not  low  enough  for  me  ! 

Alice.  Your  Grace  hath  a low  voice. 

Mary.  How  dare  you  say  it  ? 

Even  for  that  he  hates  me.  A low  voice 

Lost  in  a wilderness  where  none  can  hear  ! 

A voice  of  shipwreck  on  a shoreless  sea  ! 

A low  voice  from  the  dust  and  from  the 
grave.  {Sitting  on  the  ground.) 

There,  am  I low  enough  now? 

Alice.  Good  Lord  ! how  grim  and  ghastly 
looks  her  Grace, 

With  both  her  knees  drawn  upward  to  her 
chin. 

There  was  an  old-world  tomb  beside  my 
father’s, 

And  this  was  open’d,  and  the  dead  were 
found 

Sitting,  and  in  this  fashion  ; she  looks  a 
corpse. 

Enter  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres. 


37^ 


QUEEN  MARY, 


Lady  Magdalen.  Madam,  the  Count  de 
Feria  waits  without, 

In  hopes  to  see  your  Highness. 

Lady  Clarence  i^pointing  to  Mary).  Wait 
he  must  — 

Her  trance  again.  She  neither  sees  nor  hears, 
And  may  not  speak  for  hours. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Unhapplest 

Of  Queens  and  wives  and  women. 

Alice  {in  the  foreground  with  Lady 
Magdalen).  And  all  along 
Of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Not  so  loud!  Our  Clar- 
ence there 

Sees  ever  such  an  aureole  round  the  Queen, 
It  gilds  the  greatest  wronger  of  her  peace, 
Who  stands  the  nearest  to  her. 

A lice.  Ay,  this  Philip  ; 

I used  to  love  the  Queen  with  all  my  heart  — 
God  help  me,  but  methinks  1 love  her  less 
For  such  a dotage  upon  such  a man. 

I would  I were  as  tall  and  strong  as  you. 
Lady  Magdalen.  I seem  half-shamed  at 
times  to  be  so  tall. 

Alice.  You  are  the  stateliest  deer  in  all 
the  herd  — 

Beyond  his  aim  — but  I am  small  and  scan- 
dalous, 

And  love  to  hear  bad  tales  of  Philip. 

Lady  Magdalen.  Why  ? 

I never  heard  him  utter  worse  of  you 
Than  that  you  were  low-statured. 

Alice.  Does  he  think 

Low  stature  is  low  nature,  or  all  women’s 
Low  as  his  own  ? 

Lady  Magdalen,  There  you  strike  in  the 
nail. 

This  coarseness  is  a want  of  fantasy. 

It  is  the  low  man  thinks  the  woman  low  ; 
Sin  is  too  dull  to  see  beyond  himself 
Alice.  Ah,  Magdalen,  sin  is  bold  as  well 
as  dull. 

How  dared  he  ? 

Lady  Magdalen.  Stupid  soldiers  oft  are 
bold. 

Poor  lads,  they  see  not  w'hat  the  general  sees, 
A risk  of  utter  ruin.  I am  not 
Beyond  his  aim,  or  was  not. 

A lice.  Who  ? Not  you  ? 

Tell,  tell  me  : save  my  credit  with  myself 
Lady  Magdalen.  I never  breathed  it  to  a 
bird  in  tha»  eaves, 

Would  not  for  all  the  stars  and  maiden  moon 
Our  drooping  Queen  should  know  I In 
Hampton  Court 

My  window  look’d  upon  the  corridor ; 

And  I was  robing;  — this  poor  throat  of 
mine. 

Barer  than  I should  wash  a man  to  see  it, — 
When  he  we  speak  of  drove  the  window  back, 
And,  like  a thief,  push’d  in  his  royal  hand  ; 
But  by  God’s  providence  a good  stout  staff 
Lay  near  me;  and  you  know  me  strong  of 
arm  ; 

I do  believe  I lamed  his  Majesty’s 

For  a day  or  two,  tho’,  give  the  Devil  his  due, 

I never  found  he  bore  me  any  spite. 


Alice.  I would  she  could  have  wedded 
that  poor  youth. 

My  Lord  of  Devon  — light  enough,  God 
knows, 

And  mixt  with  Wyatt’s  rising  — and  the  boy 
Not  out  of  him  — but  neither  cold,  coarse, 
cruel, 

And  more  than  all  — no  Spaniard. 

Lady  Clarence.  Not  so  loud. 

Lord  Devon,  girls  ! what  are  you  whispering 
here  ? 

Alice.  Probing  an  old  state-secret  — how 
it  chanced 

That  this  young  Earl  was  sent  on  foreign 
travel, 

Not  lost  his  head. 

Lady  Clarence.  There  was  no  proof 
against  him. 

Alice.  Nay,  Madam;  did  not  Gardiner 
intercept 

A letter  which  the  Count  de  Noailles  wrote 
To  that  dead  traitor,  Wyatt,  with  full  proof 
Of  Courtenay’s  treason  ? What  became  of 
that  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Some  say  that  Gardiner, 
out  of  love  for  him, 

Burnt  it,  and  some  relate  that  it  was  lost 
When  Wyatt  sack’d  the  Chancellor’s  house 
in  Southwark. 

Let  dead  things  rest. 

Alice.  Ay,  and  with  him  who  died 

Alone  in  Italy. 

Lady  Clarence.  Much  changed,  I hear, 
Had  put  off  levity  and  put  graveness  on. 

The  foreign  courts  report  him  in  his  man- 
ner 

Noble  as  his  young  person  and  old  shield. 

It  might  be  so — but  all  is  over  now  ; 

He  caught  a chill  in  the  lagoons  of  Venice, 
And  died  in  Padua. 

Mary  {looking  up  suddenly').  Died  in  the 
true  faith  ? 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  Madam,  happily. 

Mary.  Happier  he  than  T. 

Lady  Magdalen.  It  seems  her  Highness 
hath  aw-aken’d  Think  you 
That  I might  dare  to  tell  her  that  the  Count  — 

Mary.  I w'lll  see  no  man  hence  forever- 
more. 

Saving  my  confessor  and  my  cousin  Pole. 

Lady  Magdalen.  It  is  the  Count  de 
Feria,  my  dear  lady. 

Mary.  What  Count? 

Lady  Magdalen.  The  Count  de  Feria, 
from  his  Majesty 
King  Philip. 

Mary.  Philip  ! quick  ! loop  up  my  hair  ! 
Throw  cushions  on  that  seat,  and  make  it 
throne-like. 

Arrange  my  dress  — the  gorgeous  Indian 
shawl 

That  Philip  brought  me  in  our  happy  days  ! — 
That  covers  all.  So  — am  1 somewhat 
Queenlike, 

Bride  ot  the  mightiest  sovereign  upon  earth? 

Lady  Clarence.  Ay,  so  your  Grace  would 
bide  a moment  yer. 


{ 

i 

t 


QUEEN  MARY.  377 


Mary.  No,  no,  he  brings  a letter.  I may 
die 

Before  I read  it.  Let  me  see  him  at  once. 

Enter  Count  de  Feria  {kneels). 

Feria.  I trust  your  Grace  is  well.  {A  side) 
How  her  hand  burns. 

Mary.  I am  not  well,  but  it  will  better 
me, 

Sir  Count,  to  read  the  letter  which  you 
bring. 

Feria.  Madam,  I bring  no  letter^ 

Mary.  How  ! no  letter? 

Feria.  His  Highness  is  so  vex’d  with 
strange  affairs  — 

Mary.  That  his  own  wife  is  no  affair  of 
his. 

Feria.  Nay,  Madam,  nay ! he  sends  his 
veriest  love, 

And  says,  he  will  come  quickly. 

Mary.  Doth  he,  indeed  ? 

You,  sir,  diO  you  remember  '^h.^Xyou  said 
When  last  you  came  to  England? 

Feria.  Madam,  I brought 

My  King’s  congratulations  ; it  was  hoped 
Your  Highness  was  once  more  in  happy  state 
To  give  him  an  heir  male. 

Mary.  Sir,  you  said  more  ; 

You  said  he  would  come  quickly.  I had 
horses 

On  all  the  road  from  Dover,  day  and  night  ; 
On  all  the  road  from  Harwich,  night  and 
day ; 

But  the  child  came  not,  and  the  husband 
came  not : 

And  yet  he  will  come  quickly.  . . . Thou 
hast  learnt 

Thy  lesson,  and  I mine.  There  is  no  need 
For  Philip  so  to  shame  himself  again. 
Return, 

And  tell  him  that  I know  he  comes  no 
more. 

Tell  him  at  last  I know  his  love  is  dead, 

And  that  I am  in  state  to  bring  forth  death  — 
Thou  art  commission’d  to  Elizabeth, 

And  not  to  me  ! 

Feria.  Mere  compliments  and  wishes. 
But  shall  I take  some  message  from  your 
Grace  ? 

Mary.  Tell  her  to  come  and  close  my  dy- 
ing eyes. 

And  wear  my  crown,  and  dance  upon  my 
grave. 

Feria.  Then  I may  say  your  Grace  will 
see  your  sister? 

Your  Grace  is  too  low-spirited.  Air  and 
sunshine. 

I would  we  had  you.  Madam,  in  our  warm 
Spain. 

You  droop  in  your  dim  London. 

Mary.  ^ ^ Have  him  away, 

I sicken  of  his  readiness. 

Lady  Clarence.  My  Lord  Count, 

Her  Highness  is  too  ill  for  colloquy. 

Feria  {kneels.,  and  ki;ses  her  hand).  I 
wish  her  Highness  better.  (Aside) 
How  her  hand  burns.  {^Exeunt. 


SCENE  III. — A HOUSE  NEAR 
LONDON. 

Elizabeth.  Steward  of  the  House- 
hold, Attendants. 

Elizabeth.  There ’s  half  an  angel  wrong’d 
in  your  account ; 

Methinks  I am  all  angel,  that  I bear  it 
Without  more  ruffling.  Cast  it  o’er  again. 

Steuoard.  I were  whole  devil  if  I wrong’d 
you.  Madam.  \_Exii  Steward. 

Attendant.  The  Count  de  Feria,  from  the 
King  of  Spain. 

Elizabeth.  Ah!  — let  him  enter.  Nay, 
you  need  not  go  : \_To  her  Ladies. 

Remain  within  the  chamber,  but  apart. 

We  ’ll  have  no  private  conference.  Wel- 
come to  England  ! 

Enter  Feria. 

Feria.  Fair  island  star. 

Elizabeth.  I shine  ! What  else.  Sir  Count  ? 

Feria.  As  far  as  France,  and  into  Philip’s 
heart. 

My  King  would  know  if  you  be  fairly  served. 
And  lodged,  and  treated. 

Elizabeth.  You  see  the  lodging,  sir, 

I am  weil-served,  and  am  in  every  thing 
Most  loyal  and  most  grateful  to  the  Queen. 

Feria.  You  should  be  grateful  to  my  mas- 
ter, too. 

He  spoke  of  this  ; and  unto  him  you  owe 
That  Mary  hath  acknowledged  you  her  heir. 

Elizabeth.  No,  not  to  her  nor  him  ; but 
to  the  people. 

Who  know  my  right,  and  love  me,  as  I 
love 

The  people  ! whom  God  aid  ! 

Feria.  You  will  be  Queen. 

And,  were  I Philip  — 

Elizabeth.  Wherefore  pause  you  — what  ? 

Feria.  Nay,  but  I speak  from  mine  own 
self,  not  him  : 

Your  royal  sister  cannot  last ; your  hand 
Will  be  much  coveted  ! What  a delicate 
one  ! 

Our  Spanish  ladies  have  none  such  — and 
there, 

Were  you  in  Spain,  this  fine  fair  gossamer 
gold  — 

Like  sun-gilt  breathings  on  a frosty  dawn  — 
That  hovers  round  your  shoulder  — 

Elizabeth.  Is  it  so  fine? 

Troth,  some  have  said  so. 

Feria.  — would  be  deemed  a miracle. 

Elizabeth.  Your  Philip  hath  gold  hair  and 
golden  beard. 

There  must  be  ladies  many  with  hair  like 
mine. 

Feria.  Some  few  of  Gothic  blood  have 
golden  hair. 

But  none  like  yours. 

Elizabeth.  I am  happy  you  approve  it. 

Feria.  But  as  to  Philip  and  your  Grace  — 
consider,  — 

If  such  a one  as  you  should  match  with  Spain , 
What  hinders  but  that  Spain  and  England 
join’d. 


378  QUEEN  MARY. 

Should  make  the  mightiest  empire  earth  has  Two  Others. 

c • iiT'i  T?  1 j 1 j First.  There ’s  the  Queen’s  light.  I hear 

Spam  would  be  England  on  her  seas,  and  cannot  live. 

Engl^and  Seco>id.  God  curse  her  and  her  Legate  ! 

Mistress  of  the  Indies.  , ^ , Gardiner  burns 

J^hzabeth.  It  may  chance,  that  England  Already  ; but  to  pay  them  full  in  kind, 

Will  be  the  mistress  of  the  Indies  yet,  i, attest  hold  in  all  the  devil’s  den 

Without  the  help  of  Spam.  Were  but  a sort  of  winter  ; sir,  in  Guernsey, 

Feria.  Impossible;  I watch’d  a woman  burn  ; and  in  her  agony 

Except  you  put  Spam  down.  xhe  mother  came  upon  her -a  child  was 

Wide  of  the  mark  ev  n for  a madman  s 

And,  sir,  they  hurl’d  it  back  into  the  fire, 
Elizabeth.  Perhaps  ; but  we  have  sea-  baptized  in  fire,  the  babe 

T 1 * u 1 Might  be  in  fire  forever.  Ah,  good  neighbor, 

I take  U that  the  King  hath  spoken  to  you  ; 'phere  should  be  something  fierier  than  fire 

But  IS  Don  Carlos  such  a goodly  match  ? ^o  yield  them  their  deserts. 

Feria.  Don  Carlos,  Madam,  is  but  twelve  First.  Amen  to  all 

,,  , IT  -11  You  wish,  and  further. 

Elizabeth.  Ay,  tell  the  King  that  I will  ^ Deserts!  Amen  to 

muse  upon  it  ; what?  Whose  deserts?  Yours?  You  have 

He  IS  my  good  friend,  and  I would  keep  him  ^ gold  ring  on  your  finger,  and  soft  raiment 
’ , , , ^ about  your  body  : and  is  not  the  w'oman  up 

But  - he  would  have  me  Catholic  of  Rome,  yonder  sleeping  after  all  she  has  done,  in 
And  that  I scarce  can  be ; and,  sir,  till  now  peace  and  quietness,  on  a soft  bed,  in  a 
My  sister  s marriage,  and  my  father  s mar-  closed  room,  with  light,  fire,  physic,  tend- 

ance ; and  I have  seen  the  true  men  of 
Make  me  full  fain  Jo  live  and  die  a maid.  Christ  lying  famine-dead  by  scores,  and  un- 

But  I am  much  beholden  to  your  King.  no  ceiling  bnt  the  cloud  that  wept  on 

Have  yon  aught  else  to  teh  me  ? „ot  for  them. 

Feria.  Nothing,  Madam,  First.  Friend,  tho’  so  late,  it  is  not  safe 

Save  that  methought  I gather  d from  the  preach. 

rrM  X 1 , e 1 You  had  best  go  home.  What  are  you? 

1 hat  she  would  see  your  Grace  before  she  — ^ am  I ? One  who  cries  con- 

. tinually  with  sweat  and  tears  to  the  Lord 

Elizabeth.  Gods  death!  and  wherefore  that  it  would  please  Him  out  of  His 

\Ti7  j yoli  110^  before.  infinite  love  to  break  down  all  kingship  and 

^ mome^s  here,  queenship,  all  priesthood  and  prelacy  ; to 

And  hers  are  number  d.  Horses  there,  cancel  and  abolish  all  bonds  of  human  al- 
without  . , T^-  legiance,  all  the  magistracy,  all  the  nobles, 

I am  much  beholden  to  the  King,  your  mas-  ^nd  all  the  wealthy  ; and  to  send  us  again, 
,,,,  according  to  his  promise,  the  one  King,  the 

Why  did  you  keep  me  prating?  Horses,  Christ,  and  all  things  in  common,  as  in  the 
there  . Elizabeth,  etc.  church,  when  Christ  Jesus 

Eeria.  So  from  a clear  sky  falls  the  thun-  King 

derbolt  ! First.  If  ever  I heard  a madman,  — let’s 

Don  Carlos  ? Madam,  if  you  marry  Philip,  away  ’ 

Then  I and  he  will  snaffle  your  “God’s  why,  you  long-winded—  Sir,  you  go  be- 

A A . J , yond  me. 

And  break  your  paces  in,  and  make  you  I pride  myself  on  being  moderate. 

^ ,,  J r 1 TV  Good-night!  Go  home  I Besides,  you  curse 

Lroa  s death,  forsooth  — you  do  not  know  loud 

King  Philip.  [Exit,  'phe  watch  will  hear  you.  Get  you  home  at 

SCENE  IV. — LONDON.  BEFORE  [Exeunt. 

THE  PALACE.  SCENE  V.  — LONDON.  A ROOM  IN 

A light  burning  within.  Voices  of  the  . ^ THE  PALACE.  . 

night  passing.  ^ Gallery  on  one  side.  1 he  moonlight 

T^.  j r f 1 • 1 . streaming  throusrh  a range  of  windo7us 

First  Is  not  yon  light  in  the  Queen  s „„  Mary.  Lady 

chamber.  Clarence,  Lady  Magdalen  Dacres, 

^econd.  Ay,  Alice.  Queen  pacing  the  Gallery.  A 

They  say  she  s dying.  . writing-table  in  front.  Queen  comes 

First.  So  is  Cardinal  Pole^  to  the  table  and  writes  and  goes  aga'n, 

^"Sels  join  their  wings,  and  the  Gallery. 

Dowm  for  their  heads  to  heaven  ! Lady  Clarence.  Mine  eyes  are  dim : w’hat 

Second.  Amen.  Come  on.  [Exeunt.  hath  she  written  ? read. 

» 

x 

i 

( 

i 

< 

i 

{ 

1 

QUEEN  MARY, 


Alice.  “I  am  dying,  Philip;  come  to 
me.” 

Lady  Magdalen.  There  — up  and  down, 
poor  lady,  up  and  down. 

A lice.  And  how  her  shadow  crosses  one 
by  one 

The  moonlight  casements  pattern’d  on  the 
wall, 

Following  her  like  her  sorrow.  She  turns 
again. 

[Queen  sits  and  •writes.,  and  goes  again. 

Lady  Clarence.  What  hath  she  written 
now  ! 

Alice.  Nothing;  but  “come,  come, 
come,”  and  all  awry, 

And  blotted  by  her  tears.  This  cannot  last. 

[Queen  retur7is. 

Mary.  I whistle  to  the  bird  has  broken 
cage. 

And  all  in  vain.  [Sitting  down. 

Calais  gone  — Guisnes  gone,  too  — and 
Philip  gone ! 

Lady  Clarence.  Dear  Madam,  Philip  is 
but  at  the  wars  ; 

I cannot  doubt  but  that  he  comes  again  ; 

And  he  is  with  you  in  a measure  still. 

I never  look’d  upon  so  fair  a likeness 

As  your  great  King  in  armor  there,  his  hand 

Upon  his  helmet. 

[Pointing  to  the  portrait  of  Philip  on 
the  wall. 

Mary.  Doth  he  not  look  noble  ? 

I had  heard  of  him  in  battle  over  seas. 

And  I would  have  my  warrior  all  in  arms. 

He  said  it  was  not  courtly  to  stand  hel- 
meted 

Before  the  Queen.  He  had  his  gracious 
moment 

Altho’  you  ’ll  not  believe  me.  How  he 
smiles 

As  if  he  loved  me  yet ! 

Lady  Clarence.  And  so  he  does. 

Mary.  He  never  loved  me  — nay,  he 
could  not  love  me. 

It  was  his  father’s  policy  against  France. 

I am  eleven  years  older  than  he, 

Poor  boy.  [ VY eeJ)S. 

Alice.  That  was  a lusty  boy  of  twenty- 
seven;  [Aside. 

Poor  enough  in  God’s  grace  ! 

Mary.  — And  all  in  vain  ! 

The  Queen  of  Scots  is  married  to  the  Dau- 
phin. 

And  Charles,  the  lord  of  this  low  w'orld  is 
gone ; 

And  all  his  wars  and  wisdoms  past  away ; 

And  in  a moment  I shall  follow  him. 

Lady  Clarence.  Nay,  dearest  Lady,  see 
your  good  physician. 

Mary.  Drugs  — but  he  knows  they  can- 
not help  me  — says 

That  rest  is  all  — tells  me  I must  not  think  — 

That  I must  rest  — I shall  rest  by  and  by. 

Catch  the  wild  cat,  cage  him,  and  when  he 
springs 

And  maims  himself  against  the  bars,  say 
“ rest  ” ; 


379 

Why,  you  must  kill  him  if  you  would  have 
him  rest  — 

Dead  or  alive  you  cannot  make  him  happy. 
Lady  Clarence.  Your  Majesty  has  lived 
so  pure  a life. 

And  done  such  mighty  things  by  Holy 
Church, 

I trust  that  God  will  make  you  happy  yet. 
Mary.  What  is  the  strange  thing  happi- 
ness? Sit  down  here  : 

Tell  me  thine  happiest  hour. 

Lady  Clarence.  I will,  if  that 

May  make  your  Grace  forget  yourself  a 
little. 

There  runs  a shallow  brook  across  our  field 
For  twenty  miles,  where  the  black  crow 
flies  five, 

And  doth  so  bound  and  babble  all  the 
way 

As  if  itself  were  happy.  It  was  May-rime, 
And  I was  walking  with  the  man  I loved. 

I loved  him,  but  1 thought  I was  not  loved. 
And  both  were  silent,  letting  the  wild 
brook 

Speak  for  us  — till  he  stoop’d  and  gather’d 
one 

From  out  a bed  of  thick  forget-me-nots, 
Look’d  hard  and  sweet  at  me,  and  gave  it 
me, 

I took  it,  tho’  I did  not  know  I took  it, 

And  put  it  in  ray  bosom,  and  all  at  once 
I felt  his  arms  about  me,  and  his  lips  — 
Mary.  O God  ! I have  been  too  slack  ; 
There  are  Hot  Gospellers  even  among  our 
guards  — 

Nobles  we  dared  not  touch.  We  have  but 
burnt 

The  heretic  priest,  workmen,  and  women 
and  children. 

Wet,  famine,  ague,  fever,  storm,  wreck, 
wrath,  — 

We  have  so  play’d  the  coward  ; but  by  God’s 
grace, 

We  ’ll  follow  Philip’s  leading,  and  set  up 
The  Holy  Office  here  — garner  the  wheat. 
And  burn  the  tares  with  unquenchable  fire  ! 
Burn  ! — 

Fie,  what  a savor  ! tell  the  cooks  to  close 
The  doors  of  all  the  offices  below. 

Latimer  ! 

Sir,  w’e  are  private  with  our  women  here  — 
Ever  a rough,  blunt,  and  uncourtly  fellow  — 
Thou  light  a torch  that  never  wall  go  out  ! 

’T  is  out  — mine  flames.  Women,  the  Holy 
Father 

Has  ta’en  the  legateship  from  our  cousin 
Pole  — 

Was  that  well  done?  and  poor  Pole  pines 
of  it. 

As  I do,  to  the  death.  I am  but  a woman, 

I have  no  power.  — Ah,  weak  and  meek  old 
man, 

Sevenfold  dishonor’d  even  in  the  sight 
Of  thine  own  sectaries — No,  no.  No  par- 
don ! — 

Why  that  was  false  : there  is  the  right  hand 
still 


380 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Beckons  me  hence. 

Sir,  you  were  burnt  for  heresy,  not  for  trea- 
son. 

Remember  that  ! ’t  was  I and  Bonner  did  it. 
And  Pole  ; we  are  three  to  one — Have  you 
found  mercy  there. 

Grant  it  me  here  : and  see  he  smiles  and 
goes, 

Gentle  as  in  life. 

Alice.  Madam,  who  goes?  King  Philip? 
Mary.  No,  Philip  comes  and  goes,  but 
never  goes. 

Women,  when  I am  dead, 

Open  my  heart,  and  there  you  will  find 
written 

Two  names,  Philip  and  Calais;  open  his, — 
So  that  he  have  one,  — 

You  will  find  Philip  only,  policy,  policy,  — 
Ay,  worse  than  that  — not  one  liour  true  to 
me  ! 

Foul  maggots  crawling  in  a fester’d  vice  ! 
Adulterous  to  the  very  heart  of  Hell. 

Hast  thou  a knife  ? 

Alice.  Ay,  Madam,  but  o’ God’s  mercy  — 
Mary.  Fool,  think’st  thou  I would  peril 
mine  own  soul 

By  slaughter  of  the  body?  I could  not, 

girl, 

Not  this  way  — callous  with  a constant  stripe, 
Unwoundable.  Thy  knife  ! 

Alice.  Take  heed,  take  heed  ! 

The  blade  is  keen  as  death. 

Mary.  ^ This  Philip  shall  not 

Stare  in  upon  me  in  my  haggardness  ; 

Old,  miserable,  diseased. 

Incapable  of  children.  Come  thou  down. 
{Cuts  out  the  picture  and  throws  it 
down. 

Lie  there.  {Wails.)  O God,  I have  killed 
my  Philip. 

Alice.  No, 

Madam,  you  have  but  cut  the  canvas  out. 
We  can  replace  it. 

Mary.  All  is  well  then  ; rest  — 

I will  to  rest ; he  said,  I must  have  rest. 

{Cries  of''"  Elizabeth  ” in  the  street. 
Aery!  Whnt’sthat?  Elizabeth?  revolt? 

A new  Northumberland  another  Wyatt? 

I ’ll  fight  it  on  the  threshold  of  the  grave. 
Lady  Clarence.  Madam,  your  royal  sis- 
ter comes  to  see  you. 

Mary.  I will  not  see  her. 

Who  knows  if  Boleyn’s  daughter  be  my 
sister  ? 

I will  see  none  except  the  priest.  Your 
arm.  {To  Lady  Clarence. 

O Saint  of  Aragon,  with  that  sweet  worn 
smile 

Among  thy  patient  wrinkles  — Help  me 
hence.  {Exeunt. 

The  Priest  passes.  Enter  Elizabeth 
and  Sir  William  Cecil. 
Elizabeth.  Good  counsel  yours  — 

No  one  in  waiting?  still, 
As  if  the  chamberlain  were  Death  himself  I 
The  room  she  sleeps  in  — is  not  this  the  way? 


No,  that  way  there  are  voices.  Am  I too 
late  ? 

Cecil  . . . God  guide  me  lest  I lose  the  way. 

{Exit  Elizabeth. 

Cecil.  Many  points  weather’d,  many  per- 
ilous ones. 

At  last  a harbor  opens  ; but  therein 
Sunk  rocks  — they  need  fine  steering  — much 
it  is 

To  be  nor  mad,  nor  bigot  — have  a mind  — 
Not  let  Priests’  talk,  or  dream  of  worlds  to 
be, 

Miscolor  things  about  her  — sudden  touches 
For  him,  or  him  — sunk  rocks  ; no  passion- 
ate faith  — 

But — if  let  be  — balance  and  compromise  ; 
Brave,  wary,  sane  to  the  heart  of  her  — a 
Tudor 

School’d  by  the  shadow  of  death  — a Bo- 
leyn,  too, 

Glancing  across  the  Tudor  — not  so  well. 

Enter  Alice. 

How  is  the  good  Queen  now? 

Alice.  Away  from  Philip. 

Back  in  her  childhood  — prattling  to  her 
mother 

Of  her  betrothal  to  the  Emperor  Charles, 
And  childlike-jealous  of  him  again  — and 
once 

She  thank’d  her  father  sweetly  for  his  book 
Against  that  godless  German.  Ah,  those 
days 

Were  happy.  It  was  never  merry  world 
In  England,  since  the  Bible  came  among 
us. 

Cecil.  And  who  says  that  ? 

A lice.  It  is  a saying  among  the  Catholics. 

Cecil.  It  never  will  be  merry  world  in 
England, 

Till  all  men  have  their  Bible,  rich  and  poor. 

Alice.  The  Queen  is  dying,  or  you  dare 
not  say  it. 

Enter  Elizabeth. 

Elizabeth.  The  Queen  is  dead. 

Cecil.  Then  here  she  stands  ! my  homage. 

Elizabeth.  She  knew  me,  and  acknowl- 
edged me  her  heir. 

Pray’d  me  to  pay  her  debts,  and  keep  the 
Faith  ; 

Then  claspt  the  cross,  and  pass’d  away  in 
peace. 

I left  her  lying  still  and  beautiful, 

More  beautiful  than  in  life.  Why  would 
you  vex  yourself. 

Poor  sister  ? Sir,  I swear  I have  no  heart 
To  be  your  Queen.  To  reign  is  restless 
fence. 

Tierce,  quart,  and  trickery.  Peace  is  with 
the  dead. 

Her  life  was  winter,  for  her  spring  was 
nipt : 

And  she  loved  much : pray  God  she  be  for- 
given. 

Cecil.  Peace  with  the  dead,  who  never 
were  at  peace  I 


QUEEN  MARY. 


Yet  she  loved  one  so  much  — I needs  must 
say  — 

That  never  English  monarch  dying  left 
England  so  little. 

Elizabeth.  But  with  Cecil’s  aid 

And  others,  if  our  person  be  secured 
From  traitor  stabs — we  will  make  England 
great. 


3S1 

Enter  Paget,  and  other  Lords  of  the 
Council,  Sir  Ralph  Bagenhall,  etc. 
Lords.  God  save  Elizabeth,  the  Queen 
of  England ! 

Bagenhall.  God  save  the  Crown : the  Pa- 
pacy is  no  more. 

Paget  (aside).  Are  we  so  sure  of  tliat? 
Acclamation.  God  save  the  Queen  ! 


/ 


382 


HAROLD. 


HAROLD. 

To  His  Excellency 

THE  RIGHT  HON.  LORD  LYTTON, 

VICEROY  AND  GOVERNOR-GENERAL  OF  INDIA. 

My  DEAR  Lord  Lytton,  — After  old-world  records,  — such  as  the  Bayeux  tapestry  and 
the  Roman  de  Rou,  — Edward  Freeman’s  History  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  and  your 
father’s  Historical  Romance  treating  of  the  same  times,  have  been  mainly  helpful  to  me 
in  writing  this  Drama.  Your  father  dedicated  his  “ Harold  ” to  my  father’s  brother ; allow 
me  to  dedicate  my  “ Harold”  to  yourself.  A.  Tennyson. 

SHOW-DAY  AT  BATTLE  ABBEY,  1876. 

A GARDEN  here  — May  breath  and  bloom  of  spring  — 

The  cuckoo  yonder  from  an  English  elm 

Crying  “ with  my  false  egg  I overwhelm  • 

The  native  nest  ” : and  fancy  hears  the  ring 
Of  harness,  and  that  deathful  arrow  sing, 

And  Saxon  battle-axe  clang  on  Norman  helm. 

Here  rose  the  dragon-banner  of  our  realm  : ^ 

Here  fought,  here  fell,  our  Norman-slander’d  king. 

O Garden  blossoming  out  of  English  blood  ! 

O strange  hate-healer  Time  ! We  stroll  and  stare 
Where  might  made  right  eight  hundred  years  ago  ; 

Might,  right  ? ay  good,  so  all  things  make  for  good  — 

But  he  and  he,  if  soul  be  soul,  are  where 
Each  stands  full  face  with  all  he  did  below. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE.  ( 

King  Edward  the  Confessor.  . n ‘ 

Stigand  {created  A rchbishop  of  Canterbury  by  the  A ntipope  Benedict).  < 

Aldred  {a  rchbishop  of  York). 

The  Norman  Bishop  of  London. 

Harold,  Earl  of  IVessex,  afterwards  King  of  England 
Tostig,  Earl  of  N orthumbria 
Gurth,  Earl  of  East  Anglia 
Leofwin,  Earl  of  Kent  and  Essex 
Wulfnoth 

Count  William  of  Normandy. 

William  Rufus. 

William  'M.al.'et  * {a  Norman  Noble). 

after  Toeti,  } of  Alf^ar  of  Mercia^ 

Gamel  {a  Northumbrian  Thane). 

Guy  {Count  of  Ponthieu). 

Rolf  {a  Ponthieu  Fisherman). 

Hugh  Margot  {a  Norman  Plonk). 

Osgod  and  Atw'e.'lric  {Canons from  Waltham). 

The  Queen  {Edward  the  Confessor' s Wife,  Daughter  of  Godwin). 

Aldwyth  {Daughter  of  Alfgar  and  Widow  of  Gr iffy th.  King  of  W ales). 

Edith  {Ward  of  King  Edward). 

Courtiers,  Earls  and  Thanes,  Men-at-A  rms.  Canons  of  W altham.  Fishermen,  etc. 

* Compater  Heraldi,  quidam  partim  Normannus  et  Anglus.  — Guy  0/ Amiens. 


j>  {Sons  of  Godwin). 


HAROLD. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.  — LONDON.  THE  KING’S 
PALACE. 

{A  comet  seen  through  the  open  window.) 

Aldwyth,  Gamel,  Courtiers  {talking 
together). 

First  Courtier.  Lo  ! there  once  more  — 
this  is  the  seventh  night  ! 

Yon  grimly  - glaring,  treble  - brandish’d 
scourge 
Of  England  ! 

Second  Courtier.  Horrible  ! 

First  Courtier.  Look  you,  there ’s  a star 
That  dances  in  it  as  mad  with  agony  ! 

Third  Courtier.  Ay,  like  a spirit  in  hell 
who  skips  and  flies 

To  right  and  left,  and  cannot  scape  the  flame. 

Second  Courtier.  Steam’d  upward  from 
the  undescendible 
Abysm. 

First  Courtier.  Or  floated  downward  from 
the  throne 
Of  God  Almighty. 

Aldwyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means? 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aldwyth.  Doth  this  affright  thee  ? 

Gamel.  Mightily,  my  dear  lady  ! 

Aldwyth.  Stand  by  me  then,  and  look 
upon  my  face. 

Not  on  the  comet. 

Enter  Morcar. 

Brother  ! why  so  pale  ? 

Morcar.  1 1 glares  in  heaven,  it  flares  upon 
the  Thames, 

The  people  are  as  thick  as  bees  below. 

They  hum  like  bees,  — they  cannot  speak 
— for  awe  ; 

Look  to  the  skies,  then  to  the  river,  strike 
Their  hearts,  and  hold  their  babies  up  to  it. 

I think  that  they  would  Molochize  them 
too. 

To  have  the  heavens  clear. 

Aldwyth.  They  fright  not  me. 

Enter  Leofwin,  after  him  Gurth. 

Ask  thou  Lord  Leofwin  what  he  thinks  of 
this  ! 

Morcar.  Lord  Leofwin,  dost  thou  believe, 
that  these 

Three  rods  of  blood-red  fire  up  yonder  mean 
The  doom  of  England  and  the  wrath  of 
Heaven  ? 

Bishop  of  London  {passing).  Did  ye  not 
cast  with  bestial  violence 
Our  holy  Norrnan  bishops  down  from  all 
Their  thrones  in  England  ? I alone  remain. 
Why  should  not  Heaven  be  wroth  ? 

Leofwin.  With  us,  or  thee  ? 

Bishop  of  London.  Did  ye  not  outlaw 
your  archbishop  Robert, 

Robert  of  Jumieges  — well-nigh  murder 
him  too? 

Is  there  no  reason  for  the  wrath  of  Heaven  ? 


383 

Leofwin.  Why  then  the  wrath  of  Heaven 
hath  three  tails. 

The  devil  only  one. 

{Exit  Bishop  of  London. 

Archbishop  Stigand. 

Ask  our  Archbishop. 
Stigand  should  know  the  purposes  of 
Heaven. 

Stigand.  Not  I.  I cannot  read  the  face 
of  heaven. 

Perhaps  our  vines  will  grow  the  better  for 
it. 

Leofwin  {laughing).  He  can  but  read  the 
king’s  face  on  his  coins. 

Stigand.  Ay,  ay,  young  lord,  there  the 
king’s  face  is  power. 

Gurth.  O father,  mock  not  at  a public 
fear. 

But  tell  us,  is  this  pendent  hell  in  heaven 
A harm  to  England  ? 

Stigand.  Ask  it  of  King  Edward  ! 

And  may  he  tell  thee,  / am  a harm  to  Eng- 
land. 

Old  uncanonical  Stigand  — ask  of  me 
Who  had  my  pallium  from  an  Antipope  ! 

Not  he  the  man  — for  in  our  windy  world 
What ’s  up  is  faith,  what ’s  down  is  heresy. 
Our  friends,  the  Normans,  holp  to  shake 
his  chair. 

I have  a Norman  fever  on  me,  son. 

And  cannot  answer  sanely.  . . . What  it 
means? 

Ask  our  broad  Earl. 

{Pointing  to  Harold,  who  enters. 

Harold  {seeing  Gamel).  Hail,  Gamel, 
son  of  Orm  ! 

Albeit  no  rolling  stone,  my  good  friend 
Gamel, 

Thou  hast  rounded  since  we  met.  Thy  life 
at  home 

Is  easier  than  mine  here.  Look  ! am  I not 
Work-wan,  flesh-fallen  ? 

Gamel.  _ Art  thou  sick,  good  Earl? 

Harold.  Sick  as  an  autumn  swallow  for  a 
voyage. 

Sick  for  an  idle  week  of  hawk  and  hound 
Beyond  the  seas  — a change  ! When  earn- 
est thou  hither  ? 

Gamel.  To-day,  good  Earl. 

Harold.  Is  the  North  quiet,  Gamel  ? 

Gamel.  Nay,  there  be  murmurs,  for  thy 
brother  breaks  us 

With  over-taxing  — quiet,  ay,  as  yet — I 
Nothing  as  yet. 

Harold.  Stand  by  him,  mine  old  friend. 
Thou  art  a great  voice  in  Northumber- 
land ! 

Advise  him  : speak  him  sweetly,  he  will 
hear  thee. 

He  is  passionate  but  honest.  Stand  thou 
by  him  ! 

More  talk  of  this  to-morrow,  if  yon  weird 
sign 

Not  blast  us  in  our  dreams.  — Well,  father 
Stigand  — 

{To  Stigand,  who  advances  to  him. 


384 


HAROLD. 


Stigand  {^pointing  to  the  comef).  War 
there,  my  son?  is  that  the  doom  of 
England  ? 

Harold.  Why  not  the  doom  of  all  the 
world  as  well  ? 

For  all  the  world  sees  it  as  well  as  England. 
These  meteors  came  and  went  before  our  day, 
Not  harming  any : it  threatens  us  no  more 
Than  French  or  Norman.  War?  the  worst 
that  follows 

Things  that  seem  jerk’d  out  of  the  common 
rut 

Of  Nature  is  the  hot  religious  fool. 

Who,  seeing  war  in  heaven,  for  heaven’s 
credit 

Makes  it  on  earth:  but  look,  where  Edward 
draws 

A faint  foot  hither,  leaning  upon  Tostig, 

He  hath  learnt  to  love  our  Tostig  much  of 
late. 

Leofivin-  And  he  hath  learnt,  despite  the 
tiger  in  him, 

To  sleek  and  supple  himself  to  the  king’s 
hand. 

Gnrth.  I trust  the  kingly  touch  that  cures 
the  evil 

May  serve  to  charm  the  tiger  out  of  him. 

Leofyoin.  He  hath  as  much  of  cat  as  tiger 
in  him. 

Our  Tostig  loves  the  hand  and  not  the  man. 
Harold.  Nay  ! Better  die  than  lie  I 

Enter  King,  Queen  and  Tostig. 

Edward.  ^ In  heaven  signs  ! 

Signs  upon  earth  ! signs  everywhere  ! your 
Priests 

Gross,  worldly,  simoniacal,  unlearn’d  ! 

They  scarce  can  read  their  Psalter ; and 
your  churches 

Uncouth,  unhandsome, while  in  Normanland 
God  speaks  thro’  abler  voices,  as  He  dwells 
In  statelier  shrines.  I say  not  this,  as  being 
Half  Norman-blooded,  nor  as  some  have 
held. 

Because  I love  the  Norman  better  — no. 
But  dreading  God’s  revenge  upon  this  realm 
For  narrowness  and  coldness  : and  I say  it 
For  the  last  time  perchance,  before  I go 
To  find  the  sweet  refreshment  of  the  Saints. 
I have  lived  a life  of  utter  purity  : 

I have  builded  the  great  church  of  Holy 
Peter : 

I have  wrought  miracles  — to  God  the 
glory—  ^ . 

And  miracles  will  in  my  name  be  wrought 
Hereafter.  — I have  fought  the  fight  and 
go  — 

I see  the  flashing  of  the  gates  of  pearl  — 

And  it  is  well  with  me,  tho’  some  of  you 
Have  scorn’d  me  — ay  — but  after  I am  gone 
Woe,  woe  to  England  ! I have  had  a vision  ; 
The  seven  sleepers  in  the  cave  at  Ephesus 
Have  turn’d  from  right  to  left. 

Harold.  My  most  dear  Master, 

What  matters?  let  them  turn  from  left  to 
right 

And  sleep  again. 


Tostig.  Too  hardy  with  thy  king  ! 

A life  of  prayer  and  fasting  well  may  see 
Deeper  into  the  mysteries  of  heaven 
Than  thou,  good  brother. 

Aldwyth  {aside').  Sees  he  into  thine. 
That  thou  wouldst  have  his  promise  for  the 
crown  ? 

Edward.  Tostig  says  true  ; my  son,  thou 
art  too  hard. 

Not  stagger’d  by  this  ominous  earth  and 
heaven  : 

But  heaven  and  earth  are  threads  of  the 
same  loom. 

Play  into  one  another,  and  weave  the  web 
That  may  confound  thee  yet. 

Harold.  Nay,  I trust  not. 

For  I have  served  thee  long  and  honestly. 

Edward.  I know  it,  son  ; I am  not  thank- 
less : thou 

Hast  broken  all  my  foes,  lighten’d  for  me 
The  weight  of  this  poor  crown,  and  left  me 
time 

And  peace  for  prayer  to  gain  a better  one. 
Twelve  years  of  service  ! England  loves 
thee  for  it. 

Thou  art  the  man  to  rule  her ! 

A Idwyth  {aside').  So,  not  Tostig  ! 

Harold.  And  after  those  twelve  years  a 
boon,  my  king. 

Respite,  a holiday  : thyself  wast  wont 
To  love  the  chase : thy  leave  to  set  my 
feet 

On  board,  and  hunt  and  hawk  beyond  the 
seas  ! 

Edward.  What,  with  this  flaming  horror 
overhead  ? 

Harold.  Well,  when  it  passes  then. 

Edward.  Ay  if  it  pass. 

Go  not  to  Normandy  — go  not  to  Norrnandy. 

Harold.  And  wherefore  not,  my  king,  to 
Normandy  ? 

Is  not  my  brother  Wulfnoth  hostage  there 
For  my  dead  father’s  loyalty  to  thee? 

I pray  thee,  let  me  hence  and  bring  him 
home. 

Edward.  Not  thee,  my  son  : some  other 
messenger. 

Harold.  And  why  not  me,  my  lord,  to 
Normandy? 

Is  not  the  Norman  Count  thy  friend  and 
mine  ? 

Edward.  I pray  thee,  do  not  go  to  Nor- 
mandy. 

Harold.  Because  my  father  drove  the 
Normans  out 

Of  England  ? — That  was  many  a summer 
gone  — 

Forgotten  and  forgiven  by  them  and  thee. 

Edzvard.  Harold,  I will  not  yield  thee 
leave  to  go. 

Harold.  Why  then  to  Flanders.  I will 
hawk  and  hunt 
In  Flanders. 

Edward.  Be  there  not  fair  w'oods  and 
fields 

In  England?  Wilful,  wilful.  Go  — the  Saints 
Pilot  and  prosper  all  thy  wandering  out 


HAROLD,  385 


And  homeward.  Tostig,  I am  faint  again. 
Son  Harold,  I will  in  and  pray  for  thee. 

[Exit,  leaning  on  Tostig,  and  followed 
by  Stigand,  Morcar,  and  Court- 
iers. 

Harold.  What  lies  upon  the  mind  of  our 
good  king 

That  he  should  harp  this  way  on  Normandy? 

Queen.  Brother,  the  king  is  wiser  than  he 
seems  ; 

And  Tostig  knows  it ; Tostig  loves  the  king. 

Harold.  And  love  should  know  ; and  — 
be  the  king  so  wise,  — 

Then  Tostig  too  were  wiser  than  he  seems. 

I love  the  man  but  not  his  fantasies. 

Re-enter  Tostig. 

Well,  brother. 

When  didst  thou  hear  from  thy  Northumbria  ? 

Tostig.  When  did  I hear  aught  but  this 
“ When  ” from  thee  ? 

Leave  me  alone,  brother,  with  my  Nor- 
thumbria : 

She  is  my  mistress,  let  7ne  look  to  her ! 

The  King  hath  made  me  Earl ; make  me 
not  fool  ! 

Nor  make  the  King  a fool,  who  made  me 
Earl  ! 

Harold.  No,  Tostig— lest  I make  my- 
self a fool 

Who  made  the  King  who  made  thee,  make 
thee  Earl. 

Tostig.  Why  chafe  me  then  ? Thou  know- 
est  I soon  go  wild. 

Gurth.  Come,  come  ! as  yet  thou  art  not 
gone  so  wild 

But  thou  canst  hear  the  best  and  wisest  of  us. 

Harold.  So  says  old  Gurth,  not  I ; yet 
hear ! thine  earldom, 

Tostig, hath  been  a kingdom.  Their  old  crown 
Is  yet  a force  among  them,  a sun  set 
But  leaving  light  enough  for  Alfgar’s  house 
To  strike  thee  down  by  — nay,  this  ghastly 
glare 

Mav  heat  their  fancies. 

Tostig.  My  most  worthy  brother. 

That  art  the  quietest  man  in  all  the  world  — 
Ay,  ay  and  wise  in  peace  and  great  in  war  — 
Pray  God  the  people  choose  thee  for  their 
king  ! 

But  all  the  powers  of  the  house  of  Godwin 
Are  not  enframed  in  thee. 

Harold,  _ Thank  the  Saints,  no  ! 

But  thou  hast  drain’d  them  shallow  by  thy 
tolls, 

And  thou  art  ever  here  about  the  King  : 
Thine  absence  well  may  seem  a want  of  care. 
Cling  to  their  love;  for,  now  the  sons  of 
Godwin 

Sit  topmost  in  the  field  of  England,  envy. 
Like  the  rough  bear  beneath  the  tree,  good 
brother. 

Waits  till  the  man  let  go. 

Tostig.  Good  counsel  truly  ! 

I heard  from  my  Northumbria  yesterday. 

Harold.  How  goes  it  then  with  thy  Nor- 
thumbria? Well? 


Tostig,  And  wouldst  thou  that  it  went 
aught  else  than  well  ? 

HaroLl.  I would  it  went  as  well  as  with 
mine  earldom, 

Leofwiii’s  and  Gurth’s. 

Tostig.  Ye  govern  milder  men. 

Gurth.  We  have  made  them  milder  by 
just  government. 

Tostig.  Ay,  ever  give  yourselves  your  own 
good  word. 

Leofwin.  An  honest  gift,  by  all  the  Saints, 
if  giver 

And  taker  be  but  honest ! but  they  bribe 
Each  other,  and  so  often,  an  honest  world 
Will  not  believe  them. 

Harold.  I may  tell  thee,  Tostig, 

I heard  from  thy  Northumberland  to-day. 

Tostig.  From  spies  of  thine  to  spy  my 
nakedness 
In  my  poor  North  ! 

Harold.  There  is  a movement  there, 
A blind  one  — nothing  yet. 

Tostig,  Crush  it  at  once 

With  all  the  power  I have  ! — I must — I 
will  ! — 

Crush  it  half-born!  Fool  still?  or  wisdom 
there. 

My  wise  head-shaking  Harold  ? 

Harold.  Make  not  thou 

The  nothing  something.  Wisdom  when  in 
power 

And  wisest,  should  not  frown  as  Power,  but 
smile 

As  kindness,  watching  all,  till  the  true  must 
Shall  make  her  strike  as  Power : but  when 
to  strike  — 

O Tostig,  O dear  brother — If  they  prance. 
Rein  in,  not  lash  them,  lest  they  rear  and  run 
And  break  both  neck  and  axle. 

Tostig.  ' Good  again  I 

Good  counsel  tho’  scarce  needed.  Pour  not 
water 

In  the  full  vessel  running  out  at  top 
To  swamp  the  house. 

Leofwin.  Nor  thou  be  a wdld  thing 

Out  of  the  waste,  to  turn  and  bite  the  hand 
Would  help  thee  from  the  trap. 

Todig.  Thou  playest  in  tune. 

Leofwin.  To  the  deaf  adder  thee,  that 
wilt  not  dance 
However  w’isely  charm’d. 

Tostig,  No  more,  no  more  ! 

Gurth.  I likewise  cry  “no  more.”  Un- 
wholesome talk 

For  Godwin’s  house  I Leofwin,  thou  hast 
a tongue  ! 

Tostig,  thou  lookst  as  thou  wouldst  spring 
upon  him. 

St.  Olaf,  not  while  I am  by  I Come,  come. 
Join  hands,  let  brethren  dwell  in  unity  ; 

Let  kith  and  kin  stand  close  as  our  shield- 
wall. 

Who  breaks  us  then  ? I say,  thou  hast 
a tongue. 

And  Tostig  is  not  stout  enough  to  bear  it. 
Vex  him  not,  Leofwin. 

Tostig.  No,  I am  not  vext,  — 


/ 


386 


HA  ROLD. 


Altho’  ye  seek  to  vex  me,  one  and  all. 

I have  to  make  report  of  my  good  earldom 
To  the  good  king  who  gave  it  — not  to  you  — 
Not  any  of  you.  — I am  not  vext  at  all. 

Harold.  The  king?  the  king  is  ever  at 
his  prayers  ; 

In  all  that  handles  matter  of  the  state 
I am  the  king. 

Tostig.  That  shalt  thou  never  be 

If  I can  thwart  thee. 

Harold.  Brother,  brother  ! 

Tostig.  Away  ! 

[Exit  Tostig. 

Queen.  Spite  of  this  grisly  star  ye  three 
must  gall 
Poor  Tostig. 

Leaf -win.  Tostig,  sister,  galls  himself. 

He  cannot  smell  a rose  but  pricks  his  nose 
Against  the  thorn,  and  rails  against  the  rose. 

Queen.  I am  the  only  rose  of  all  the 
stock 

That  never  thorn’d  him  ; Edward  loves  him, 
so 

Ye  hate  him.  Harold  always  hated  him. 
Why  — how  they  fought  when  boys  — and, 
Holy  Mary  ! 

How  Harold  used  to  beat  him  ! 

Harold.  Why,  boys  W'ill  fight. 

Leofwin  would  often  fight  me,  and  I beat 
him. 

Even  old  Gurth  would  fight.  I had  much 
ado 

To  hold  mine  own  against  old  Gurth.  Old 
Gurth, 

We  fought  like  great  states  for  grave  cause  ; 
but  Tostig  — 

On  a sudden  — at  a something  — for  a 
nothing  — 

The  boy  would  fist  me  hard,  and  when  we 
fought 

I conquer’d,  and  he  loved  me  none  the  less. 
Till  thou  wouldst  get  him  all  apart,  and  tell 
him 

That  where  he  was  but  worsted,  he  was 
wrong’d. 

Ah  ! thou  hast  taught  the  king  to  spoil  him 
too ; 

Now  the  spoilt  child  sways  both.  Take 
heed,  take  heed  ; 

Thou  art  the  Queen  ; ye  are  boy  and  girl 
no  more  : 

Side  not  with  Tostig  in  any  violence. 

Lest  thou  be  sideways  guilty  of  the  violence. 

Queen.  Come  fall  not  foul  on  me.  I leave 
thee,  brother. 

Harold.  Nay,  my  good  sister  — 

Queen,  Harold,  Gurth,  and 
Leofwin. 

Aldivyth.  Gamel,  son  of  Orm, 

What  thinkest  thou  this  means  ? 

[Pointing  to  the  comet. 

Gamel.  War,  my  dear  lady. 

War,  waste,  plague,  famine,  all  malignities. 

A Idivyth.  It  means  the  fall  of  Tostig  from 
his  earldom. 

Gamel.  That  were  too  small  a matter  for  , 
a comet ! | 


A Idwyih.  It  means  the  lifting  of  the  house 
of  Alfgar. 

Gamel.  Too  small  ! a comet  would  not 
show  for  that  ! 

A Idwyth.  Not  small  for  thee,  if  thou  canst 
compass  it. 

Gamel.  Thy  love  ? 

Aldwyth.  As  much  as  I can  give  thee, 
man  ; 

This  Tostig  is,  or  like  to  be,  a tyrant ; 

Stir  up  thy  people  : oust  him  ! 

Gamel.  And  thy  love  ? 

A Idwyth.  As  much  as  thou  canst  bear. 

Gamel.  I can  bear  all. 

And  not  be  giddy. 

Aldwyth.  No  more  now  : to-morrow. 

SCENE  II. — IN  THE  GARDEN.  THE 
KING’S  HOUSE  NEAR  LONDON. 
SUNSET. 

Edith.  Mad  for  thy  mate,  passionate 
nightingale.  . . . 

I love  thee  for  it  — ay,  but  stay  a moment  ; 

He  can  but  stay  a moment : he  is  going. 

I fain  would  hear  him  coming  ! . . . near 
me  . . . near. 

Somewhere  — To  draw  him  nearer  wdth  a 
charm 

Like  thine  to  thine. 

{Singing.) 

Love  is  come  with  a song;  and  a smile. 

Welcome  Love  with  a smile  and  a song: 

Love  can  stay  but  a little  while. 

Why  cannot  he  stay  ? They  call  him  away ; 

Ye  do  hhn  wrong,  ye  do  him  wrong  ; 

Love  will  stay  for  a whole  life  long. 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold.  The  nightingales  at  Havering- 
in-the-bower 

Sang  out  their  loves  so  loud,  that  Edward’s 
prayers 

Were  deafen’d,  and  he  pray’d  them  dumb, 
and  thus 

I dumb  thee,  too,  my  w'ingless  nightingale  ! 

[Kissing  her. 

Edith.  Thou  art  my  music  ! Would  their 
wings  w’ere  mine 

To  follow  thee  to  Flanders  ! Must  thou 
go? 

Harold.  Not  must,  but  will.  It  is  but 
for  one  moon. 

Edith.  Leaving  so  many  foes  in  Ed- 
ward’s hall 

To  league  against  thy  weal.  The  Lady 
Aldwyth 

Was  here  to-day,  and  w'hen  she  touch’d  on 
thee, 

She  stammer’d  in  her  hate ; I am  sure  she 
hates  thee. 

Pants  for  thy  blood. 

Harold.  Well,  I have  given  her  cause  — 

I fear  no  woman. 

Edith.  Hate  not  one  who  felt 

Some  pity  for  thy  hater  ! I am  sure 

Her  morning  wanted  sunlight,  she  so  praised 

The  convent  and  lone  life — within  the  pale — 


1 

( 

K 

i 

t 


I 


HAROLD. 


387 


Beyond  the  passion.  Nay — she  held  with 
Edward, 

At  least  methought  she  held  with  holy 
Edward, 

That  marriage  was  half  sin. 

Harold.  A lesson  worth 

Finger  and  thumb  — thus  {sna/^s  kcS  Jin- 
gers).  And  my  answer  to  it  — 

See  here  — an  interwoven  H and  E ! 

Take  thou  this  ring  ; I will  demand  his  ward 
From  Edward  when  I come  again.  Ay, 
would  she.^ 

She  to  shut  up  my  blossom  in  the  dark  ! 

Thou  art  t*iy  nun,  thy  cloister  in  mine  arms. 

Edith  {taking  the  ring).  Yea,  but  Earl 
Tostig  — 

Harold.  That ’s  a truer  fear  ! 

For  if  the  North  take  fire,  I should  be  back  ; 
I shall  be,  soon  enough. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  last  night 

An  evil  dream  that  ever  came  and  went  ~ 

Harold.  A gnat  that  vext  thy  pillow  ! 
Had  I been  by 

I would  have  spoil’d  his  horn.  My  girl, 
what  was  it  ? 

Edith.  Oh  ! that  thou  wert  not  going  ! 
For  so  methought  it  was  our  marriage-morn, 
And  while  we  stood  together,  a dead  man 
Rose  from  behind  the  altar,  tore  away 
My  marriage  ring,  and  rent  my  bridal  veil  ; 
And  then  I turn’d,  and  saw  the  church  all 
fill’d 

With  dead  men  upright  from  their  graves, 
and  all 

The  dead  men  made  at  thee  to  murder  thee, 
But  thou  didst  back  thyself  against  a pillar. 
And  strike  among  them  w'ith  thy  battle-axe  — 
There,  what  a dream  ! 

Harold.  Well,  well  — a dream  — no  more  ! 

Edith.  Did  not  Heaven  speak  to  men 
in  dreams  of  old  ? 

Harold.  Ay  — well  — of  old.  I tell  thee 
what,  my  child ; 

Thou  hast  misread  this  merry  dream  of  thine. 
Taken  the  rifted  pillars  of  the  wood 
For  smooth  stone  columns  of  the  sanctuary. 
The  shadows  of  a hundred  fat  dead  deer 
For  dead  men’s  ghosts.  True,  that  the  bat- 
tle-axe 

Was  out  of  place  ; it  should  have  been  the 
bow'.  — 

Come,  thou  shalt  dream  no  more  such 
dreams  ; I sw'ear  it. 

By  mine  own  eyes  — and  these  two  sap- 
phires — these 

Tw'in  rubies,  that  are  amulets  against  all 
The  kisses  of  all  kind  of  w'omankind 
In  Flanders,  till  the  sea  shall  roll  me  back 
To  tumble  at  thy  feet. 

Edith.  That  would  but  shame  me. 

Rather  than  make  me  vain.  The  sea  may  roll 
Sand,  shingle,  shore-weed,  not  the  living 
rock 

Which  guards  the  land. 

Harold.  Except  it  be  a soft  one. 

And  undereaten  to  the  fall.  Mine  am- 
ulet. . . . 


This  last  . . . upon  thine  eyelids,  to  shut  in 
A happier  dream.  Sleep,  sleep,  and  thou 
shalt  see 

My  greyhounds  fleeting  like  a beam  of  light. 
And  hear  my  peregrine  and  her  bells  in 
heaven  ; 

And  other  bells  on  earth,  which  yet  are 
heaven’s  ; 

Guess  what  they  be. 

Edith.  He  cannot  guess  who  know's. 
Farewell,  my  king. 

Harold.  Not  yet,  but  then  — my  queen. 

\.Exetmt. 

Enter  Aldwyth  from  the  thicket. 

Aldwyth.  The  kiss  that  charms  thine  e3^e- 
lids  into  sleep. 

Will  hold  mine  waking.  Hate  him?  I 
could  love  him 

More,  tenfold,  than  this  fearful  child  can  do  ; 
Grifiyth  I hated  : why  not  hate  the  foe 
Of  England  ? Griffyth  w'hen  1 saw  him  flee. 
Chased  deer-like  up  his  mountains,  all  the 
blood 

That  should  have  only  pulsed  for  Griflfyth, 
beat 

For  his  pursuer.  I love  him  or  think  I love 
him. 

If  he  were  King  of  England,  I his  queen, 

I might  be  sure  of  it.  Nay,  I do  love  him.  — 
She  must  be  cloister’d  somehow,  lest  the 
king 

Should  yield  his  ward  to  Harold’s  will. 
What  harm  ? 

She  hath  but  blood  enough  to  live,  not 
love.  — 

When  Harold  goes  and  Tostig,  shall  I play 
The  craftier  Tostig  with  him  ? fawn  upon 
him  ? 

Chime  in  with  all?  “O  thou  more  saint 
than  king  ! ” 

And  that  w-ere  true  enough.  “O  blessed 
relics  ! ” 

“ O Holy  Peter  ! ” If  he  found  me  thus, 
Harold  might  hate  me  ; he  is  broad  and  hon- 
est. 

Breathing  an  easy  gladness  . . . not  like  Ald- 
wyth . . . 

For  which  I strangely  love  him.  Should  not 
England 

Love  Aldwyth,  if  she  stay  the  feuds  that 
part 

The  sons  of  Godwin  from  the  sons  of  Alfgar 
By  such  a marrying  ? Courage,  noble  Ald- 
wyth ! I 

Let  all  thy  people  bless  thee  ! 1 

Our  wild  Tostig, 
Edward  hath  made  him  Earl : he  would  be 
king : — 

The  dog  that  snapt  the  shadow,  dropt  the 
bone.  — 

I trust  he  may  do  well,  this  Gamel,  whom 
I play  upon,  that  he  may  play  the  note 
Whereat  the  dog  shall  howl  and  run,  and 
Harold 

Hear  the  king’s  music,  all  alone  with  him, 
Pronounced  his  heir  of  England. 


388 


HAROLD. 


I see  the  goal  and  half  the  way  to  it.  — 
Peace-lover  is  our  Harold  for  the  sake 
Of  England’s  wholeness  — so  — to  shake 
the  North 

With  earthquake  and  disruption  — some 
division  — 

Then  fling  mine  own  fair  person  in  the  gap 
A sacrifice  to  Harold,  a peace-offering, 

A scape-goat  marriage  — all  the  sins  of  both 
The  houses  on  mine  head  — then  a fair  life 
And  bless  the  Queen  of  England. 

Morcar  {coming  from  the  thickei)'  Art 
thou  assured 

By  this,  that  Harold  loves  but  Edith  ? 

Aldwyth.  Morcar! 

Why  creepst  thou  like  a timorous  beast  of 
prey 

Out  of  the  bush  by  night? 

Morcar.  I follow’d  thee. 

Aldwyth.  Follow  my  lead,  and  I will 
make  thee  earl. 

Morcar.  What  lead  then? 

Aldwyth.  Thou  shalt  flash  it  secretly 
Among  thegood  Northumbrian  folk,  that  I — 
'fhat  Harold  loves  me  — yea,  and  presently 
That  I and  Harold  are  betroth’d  — and 
last  — 

Perchance  that  Harold  wrongs  me  ; tho 
1 would  not 

That  it  should  come  to  that. 

Morcar.  I will  both  flash 

And  thunder  for  thee. 

A Idwyth.  I said  ‘ ‘ secretly  ” ; 

It  is  the  flash  that  murders,  the  poor  thun- 
der 

Never  harm’d  head. 

Morcar.  But  thunder  may  bring  down 
That  which  the  flash  hath  stricken. 

Aldwyth.  Down  with  Tostig  1 

That  first  of  all.  — And  when  doth  Harold 
go  ? 

Morcar.  To-morrow  — first  to  Bosham, 
then  to  Flanders. 

Aldwyth.  Not  to  come  back  till  Tostig 
shall  have  shown 

And  redden’d  with  his  people’s  blood  the 
teeth 

That  shall  be  broken  by  us  — yea,  and  thou 
Chair’d  in  his  place.  Good-night,  and  dream 
thyself 

Their  chosen  Earl.  \Exit  Aldwyth. 

Morcar.  Earl  first,  and  after  that 

Who  knows  I may  not  dream  myself  their 
Kingl 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.  — SEASHORE.  PON- 
THIEU.  NIGHT. 

Harold  and  his  men.,  wrecked. 
Harold.  Friends,  in  that  last  inhospitable 
plunge 

Our  boat  hath  burst  her  ribs ; but  ours  are 
whole  ; 

I have  but  bark’d  my  hands. 

A ttendant.  I dug  mine  into 


My  old  fast  friend  the  shore,  and  clinging 
thus 

Felt  the  remorseless  outdraught  of  the  deep 
Haul  like  a great  strong  fellow  at  my  legs. 
And  then  1 rose  and  ran.  The  blast  that 
came 

So  suddenly  hath  fallen  as  suddenly  — 

Put  thou  the  comet  and  this  blast  together 
Harold.  Put  thou  thyself  and  mother-wit 
together. 

Be  not  a fool  ! 


Enter  Fishermen  with  torches.,  Harold 
going  up  to  one  of  them,  Rolf. 

Wicked  sea-will-o’-the-wisp  ! 
Wolf  of  the  shore  ! dog,  with  thy  lying  lights 
Thou  hast  betray’d  us  on  these  rocks  of 
thine  I 

Rolf.  Ay,  but  thou  liest  as  loud  as  the 
black  herring-pond  behind  thee.  We  be 
fishermen  : I came  to  see  after  my  nets. 
Harold.  To  drag  us  into  them.  Fish- 


ermen? devils! 

Who,  while  ye  fish  for  men  with  your  false 
fires. 

Let  the  great  Devil  fish  for  your  own  souls. 

Rolf.  Nay  then,  we  be  liker  the  blessed 
Apostles;  they  were  fishers  of  men.  Father 
Jean  savs.  , , , 

Harold.  I had  liefer  that  the  fish  had 


swallowed  me, 

Like  Jonah,  than  have  known  there  were 
such  devils. 

What ’s  to  be  done  ? 

[ To  his  men  — goes  apart  with  them. 
Fisherman.  Rolf,  what  fish  did  swallow 


Jonah? 

Rolf  A w'hale ! 

Fisherman.  Then  a whale  to  a whelk 
we  have  swallowed  the  King  of  England. 
I saw  him  over  there.  Look  thee,  Rolf, 
when  I was  dowm  in  the  fever,  she  was  down 
with  the  hunger,  and  thou  didst  stand  by 
her  and  give  her  thy  crabs,  and  set  her 
up  again,  till  now,  by  the  patient  Saints, 
she ’s  as  crabb’d  as  ever. 

Rolf  And  I ’ll  give  her  my  crabs  again, 
when  thou  art  down  again. 

Fisherman.  I thank  thee,  Rolf.  Run 
thou  to  Count  Guy  ; he  is  hard  at  hand. 
Tell  him  what  hath  crept  into  our  creel,  and 
he  will  fee  thee  as  freely  as  he  will  wrench 
this  outlander’s  ransom  out  of  him  — and 
why  not  ? for  what  right  had  he  to  get 
himself  wrecked  on  another  man’s  land? 

Rolf.  Thou  art  the  human-heartedest, 
Christian-charitiest  of  all  crab-catchers  ! 
Share  and  share  alike  ! \_Exit. 

Harold  {tok  Fisherman).  Fellow,  dost 
thou  catch  crabs?  . . 

Fisherman.  As  few  as  I may  in  a wind, 
and  less  than  I would  in  a calm.  Ay  . 

Harold.  I have  a mind  that  thou  shalt 
catch  no  more. 

Fisherman.  How?  , . , • u 

Harold.  I have  a mind  to  brain  thee  with 
mine  axe. 


HAROLD,  389 


Fisherman.  Ay,  do,  do,  and  our  great 
Count-crab  will  make  his  nippers  meet  in 
thine  heart ; he  ’ll  sweat  it  out  of  thee,  he  ’ll 
sweat  it  out  of  thee.  Look,  he ’s  here  ! 
He  ’ll  speak  for  himself ! Hold  thine  own,  if 
thou  canst ! 

Enter  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu. 

Harold.  Guy,  Count  of  Ponthieu  ! 

Gny-  Harold,  Earl  of  Wessex  ! 

Harold.  Thy  villains  with  their  lying 
lights  have  wreck’d  us  ! 

Guy.  Art  thou  not  Earl  of  Wpsex? 

Harold.  In  mine  earldom 

A man  may  hang  gold  bracelets  on  a bush, 
And  leave  them  for  a year,  and  coming  back 
Eind  them  again. 

Guy.  Thou  art  a mighty  man 

In  thine  own  earldom  ! 

Harold.  Were  such  murderous  liars 

In  Wessex  — if  I caught  them,  they  should 
hang 

Cliflf-^ibbeted  for  sea-marks  ; our  seamew 
Winging  their  only  wail ! 

Guy.  Ay,  but  my  men 

Hold  that  the  shipwreckt  are  accursed  of 
God ; — 

What  hinders  me  to  hold  with  mine  own 
men  ? 

Harold.  The  Christian  manhood  of  the 
man  who  reigns  ! 

Guy.  Ay,  rave  thy  worst,  but  in  our  oubli- 
ettes 

Thou  shalt  or  rot  or  ransom.  Hale  him 
hence  ! \To  one  of  his  Attendants. 
Fly  thou  to  William  ; tell  him  we  have  Har- 
old. 

SCENE  II.  — BAYEUX  PALACE. 

Count  William  William  Malet. 

William.  We  hold  our  Saxon  woodcock 
in  the  springe. 

But  he  begins  to  flutter.  As  I think 
He  was  thine  host  in  England  when  I went 
To  visit  Edward. 

Malet.  Yea,  and  there,  my  lord, 

To  make  allowance  for  their  rougher  fash- 
ions, 

I found  him  all  a noble  host  should  be. 

William.  Thou  art  his  friend : thou 
knowst  my  claim  on  England 
Thro*  Edward’s  promise  : we  have  him  in 
the  toils. 

And  it  were  well,  if  thou  shouldst  let  him 
feel. 

How  dense  a fold  of  danger  nets  him  round. 
So  that  he  bristle  himself  against  my  will. 

Malet.  What  would  I do,  my  lord,  if  I were 
you  ? 

William.  What  wouldst  thou  do? 

Malet.  My  lord,  he  is  thy  guest. 

William.  Nay,  by  the  splendor  of  God, 
no  guest  of  mine. 

He  came  not  to  see  me,  had  passed  me  by 
To  hunt  and  hawk  elsewhere,  save  for  the 
fate 


Which  hunted  him  when  that  un- Saxon 
blast. 

And  bolts  of  thunder  moulded  in  high  heaven 
To  serve  the  Norman  purpose,  drave  and 
crack’d 

His  boat  on  Ponthieu  beach ; w'here  our 
friend  Guy 

Had  wrung  his  ransom  from  him  by  the  rack. 
But  that  I stept  between  and  purchased  him, 
Translating  his  captivity  from  Guy 
To  mine  own  hearth  at  Bayeux,  where  he  sits 
My  ransom’d  prisoner. 

Malet.  Well,  if  not  with  gold. 

With  golden  deeds  and  iron  strokes  that 
brought 

Thy  war  with  Brittany  to  a goodlier  close 
Than  else  had  been,  he  paid  his  ransom  back. 

William.  So  that  henceforth  they  are  not  , 
like  to  league 
With  Harold  against  me. 

Malet.  A marvel,  how 

He  from  the  liquid  sands  of  Coesnon 
Haled  thy  shore-swallow’d,  armor’d  Nor- 
mans up 

To  fight  for  thee  again  ! 

William.  Perchance  against 

Their  saver,  save  thou  save  him  from  himself. 

Malet.  But  I should  let  him  home  again, 
my  lord. 

William.  Simple  ! let  fly  the  bird  within 
the  hand. 

To  catch  the  bird  again  within  the  bush  ! 

No. 

Smooth  thou  my  way,  before  he  clash  with  me; 

I want  his  voice  in  England  for  the  crown, 

I w^ant  thy  voice  with  him  to  bring  him  round  ; 
And  being  brave  he  must  be  subtly  cow’d. 
And  being  truthful  wrought  upon  to  swear 
Vows  that  he  dare  not  break.  England  our 
own 

Thro’  Harold’s  help,  he  shall  be  my  dear 
friend 

As  well  as  thine,  and  thou  thyself  shalt  have 
Large  lordship  there  of  lands  and  territory. 

Malet.  I knew  thy  purpose  ; he  and  Wulf- 
noth  never 

Have  met,  except  in  public  ; shall  they  meet 
In  private?  I have  often  talk’d  with  Wulf- 
noth. 

And  stuffd  the  boy  with  fears  that  these  may 
act 

On  Harold  when  they  meet. 

William.  Then  let  them  meet  ! 

Malet.  I can  but  love  this  noble,  honest 
Harold. 

William.  Love  him  ! w'hy  not?  thine  is  a 
loving  office, 

T have  commission’d  thee  to  save  the  man  : 
Help  the  good  ship,  showing  the  sunken  rock. 
Or  he  is  wreckt  forever. 

Enter  WiiAAAM  Rufus. 

William  Rufus.  Father. 

William.  Well,  boy. 

William  Rufus.  They  have  taken  away 
the  toy  thou  gavest  me, 
i The  Norman  knight. 


/ 


390 


HAROLD. 


William.  Wliy,  boy  ? 

William  Rufus.  Because  I broke 

The  horse’s  leg  — it  was  mine  own  to  break  ; | 

I like  to  have  my  toys,  and  break  them  too.  ' 
William.  Well,  thou  shalt  have  another  , 
Norman  knight  ! j 

William  Rufus.  And  may  I break  his  legs? 
William.  Yea,  — get  thee  gone  ! 

William  Rufus.  I ’ll  tell  them  1 have  had 
my  way  with  thee.  [Rjvit.  I 

Malet.  1 never  knew  thee  check  thy  will 
for  aught  I 

Save  for  the  prattling  of  thy  little  ones.  1 
William.  Who  shall  be  kings  of  Eng- 
land. 1 am  heir  i 

Of  England  by  the  promise  of  her  king.  i 

Malet.  But  there  the  great  Assembly 
choose  their  king. 

The  choice  of  England  is  the  voice  of  Eng- 
land. 

William.  T will  be  king  of  England  by 
the  laws, 

The  choice,  and  voice  of  England. 

Malet.  Can  that  be  ? 

William.  The  voice  of  any  people  is  the 
sword 

That  guards  them,  or  the  sword  that  beats 
them  down. 

Here  comes  the  would-be  what  I will  be  . . . 
kinglike  . . . 

Tho’  scarce  at  ease  ; for,  save  our  meshes 
break. 

More  kinglike  he  than  like  to  prove  a king. 

Enter  Harold,  musing,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  ground. 

He  sees  me  not  — and  yet  he  dreams  of  me. 

Earl,  wilt  thou  fly  my  falcons  this  fair  day  ? 

They  are  of  the  best,  strong-wing’d  against 
the  wind. 

Harold  (looking  up  suddenly,  having 
caught  hut  the  last  word).  Which 
way  does  it  blow  ? 

William.  Blowing  for  England,  ha  ? 

Not  yet.  Thou  hast  not  learnt  thy  quarters 
here. 

The  winds  so  cross  and  jostle  among  these 


I should  be  as  the  shadow  of  a cloud 
Crossing  your  light. 

William.  Nay,  rest  a week  or  two. 

And  we  will  fill  thee  full  of  Norman  sun, 
And  send  thee  back  among  thine  island  mists 
With  laughter. 

Harold.  Count,  I thank  thee,  but  had 
rather 

Breathe  the  free  wind  from  off  our  Saxon 
downs, 

Tho’  charged  with  all  the  wet  of  all  the  west. 
William.  Why  if  thou  wilt,  so  let  it  be  — 
thou  shalt. 

That  were  a graceless  hospitality 
To  chain  the  free  guest  to  the  banquet  board  ; 
To-morrow  we  will  ride  with  thee  to  Har- 
fleur, 

And  see  thee  shipt,  and  pray  in  thy  behalf 
F or  happier  homeward  winds  than  that  which 
crack’d  ^ 

Thy  bark  at  Ponthieu,  — yet  to  us,  in  faith, 
A happy  one  — whereby  we  came  to  know 
Thy  valor  and  thy  value,  noble  earl. 

A}^  and  perchance  a happy  one  for  thee. 
Provided  — I will  go  with  thee  to-morrow  — 
Nay  — but  there  be  conditions,  easy  ones. 
So  thou,  fair  friend,  will  take  them  easily. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  My  lord,  there  is  a post  from  over 
seas 

With  news  for  thee.  [Exit  Page. 

William.  Come,  Malet,  let  us  hear  ! 

[Exeunt  Count  William  and  Malet. 
Harold.  Conditions?  What  conditions? 
Pay  him  back 

His  ransom?  “ easy  ” — that  were  easy  — 
nay  — 

No  money-lover  he  ! What  said  the  King? 
“ I pray  you  do  not  go  to  Normandy.” 

And  fate  hath  blown  me  hither,  bound  me  too 
With  bitter  obligation  to  the  Count  — 

Have  I not  fought  it  out?  What  did  he 
mean  ? 

There  lodged  a gleaming  grimness  in  his 
eyes. 

Gave  his  shorn  smile  the  lie.  The  walls 


t 

\ 


\ 

i 

K 

i 

1 


tow'ers. 

Harold.  Count  of  the  Normans,  thou  hast 
ransom’d  us, 

Maintain’d,  and  entertain’d  us  royally  ! 

William.  And  thou  for  us  hast  fought  as 
loyally. 

Which  binds  us  friendship-fast  forever  ! 

Harold.  Good  ! 

1 But  lest  we  turn  the  scale  of  courtesy 
1 By  too  much  pressure  on  it,  I would  fain. 

Since  thou  hast  promised  Wulfnoth  home 
, with  us, 

j Be  home  again  with  Wulfnoth. 

I William.  Stay  — as  yet 

I Thou  hast  but  seen  how  Norman  hands  can 
strike. 

But  walk’d  our  Norman  field,  scarce  touch’d 
or  tasted 

The  splendors  of  our  Court. 

Harold.  I am  in  no  mood  : 


oppress  me,  > 

And  yon  huge  keep  that  hinders  half  the  | 

heaven. 

Free  air  ! free  field  ! 

[Moves  to  go  out.  A Man-at-arms 
follows  him.  ; 

Harold  (to  the  Man-at-arms).  I need  : 

thee  not.  Why  dost  thou  follow  me  ? 
Man-at-arms.  I have  the  Count’s  com- 
mands to  follow'  thee.  ■ 

Harold.  What  then  ? Am  I in  danger  in 

this  court  ? s 

Man-at-arms.  I cannot  tell.  I have  the  j 

Count’s  commands.  * 

Harold.  Stand  out  of  earshot  then,  and  b 

keep  me  still  1 

In  eyeshot.  J| 

Man-at-arms.  Yea,  lord  Harold.  V 

r Withdraws.  j 

Harold.  And  arm’d  men  f 


HAROLD. 


Ever  keep  watch  beside  my  chamber  door, 
And  if  I w'alk  within  the  lonely  wood, 

There  is  an  arm’d  man  ever  glides  behind  ! 

Enter  Malet. 

Why  am  I follow’d,  haunted,  harass’d, 
watch’d  ? 

See  yonder  ! 

^Pointing  to  the  Man-at-arms. 

Malet.  ’T  is  the  good  Count’s  care  for 
thee  ! 

The  Normans  love  thee  not,  nor  thou  the 
Normans, 

Or  — so  they  deem. 

Harold.  But  wherefore  is  the  wind. 

Which  way  soever  the  vane-arrow  swing, 
Not  ever  fair  for  England?  Why  but  now 
He  said  (thou  heardst  him)  that  I must  not 
hence 

Save  on  condition^. 

Malet.  So  in  truth  he  said, 

Harold.  Malet,  thy  mother  was  an  Eng- 
lishwoman ; 

There  somewhere  beats  an  English  pulse  in 
thee  ! 

Malet.  Well  — for  my  mother’s  sake  I 
love  your  England, 

But  for  my  father  I love  Normandy. 

Harold.  Speak  for  thy  mother’s  sake, 
and  tell  me  true. 

Malet.  Then  for  my  mother’s  sake,  and 
England’s  sake 

That  suffers  in  the  daily  want  of  thee. 

Obey  the  Count’s  conditions,  my  good  friend. 

Harold.  How,  Malet,  if  they  be  not  hon- 
orable ! 

Malet.  Seem  to  obey  them. 

Harold.  Better  die  than  lie  ! 

Malet.  Choose  therefore  whether  thou 
wilt  have  thy  conscience 
White  as  a maiden’s  hand,  or  whether  Eng- 
land 

Be  shatter’d  into  fragments. 

Harold.  News  from  England  ? 

Malet.  Morcar  and  Edwin  have  stirr’d  up 
the  Thanes 

Against  thy  brother  Tostig’s  governance  ; 
And  all  the  North  of  Humber  is  one  storm. 

Harold.  I .should  be  there,  Malet,  I 
should  be  there  I 

Malet.  And  Tostig  in  his  own  hall  on  sus- 
picion 

Hath  massacred  the  Thane  that  was  his 
guest, 

Gamel,  the  son  of  Orm  : and  there  be  more 
As  villanously  slain. 

Harold.  The  wolf!  the  beast ! 

Ill  news  for  guests,  ha,  Malet  I More? 
What  more? 

What  do  they  say  ? did  Edward  know  of  this  ? 

Malet.  They  say,  his  wife  was  knowing 
and  abetting. 

Harold.  They  say,  his  wife  ! — To  marry 
and  have  no  husband 

Makes  the  wife  fool.  My  God,  I should  be 
there. 

I ’ll  hack  my  way  to  the  sea. 


391 

Malet.  Thou  canst  not,  Harold  ; 

Our  Duke  is  all  between  thee  and  the  sea, 
Our  Duke  is  all  about  thee  like  a God 
All  passes  block’d.  Obey  him,  speak  him 
fair. 

For  he  is  only  debonair  to  those 
That  follow  where  he  leads,  but  stark  as 
death 

To  those  that  cross  him.  — Look  thou,  here 
is  Wulfnoth  ! 

I leave  thee  to  thy  talk  with  him  alone ; 
How  wan,  poor  lad  ! how  sick  and  sad  for 
home  I yExit  Malet. 

Harold  {muttering).  Go  not  to  Norman- 
dy — go  not  to  Normandy  I 

Enter  Wulfnoth. 

Poor  brother  ! still  a hostage  ! 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,  and  I 

Shall  see  the  dewy  kiss  of  dawn  no  more 
Make  blush  the  maiden- white  of  our  tall 
cliffs. 

Nor  mark  the  sea-bird  rouse  himself  and 
hover 

Above  the  windy  ripple,  and  fill  the  sky 
With  free  sea-laughter  — never — save  in- 
deed 

Thou  canst  make  yield  this  iron-mooded 
Duke 

To  let  me  go. 

Harold.  Why,  brother,  so  he  will ; 
But  on  conditions.  Canst  thou  guess  at 
them  ? 

Wulfnoth.  Draw  nearer,  — I was  in  the 
corridor, 

I saw  him  coming  wdth  his  brother  Odo 
The  Bayeux  bishop,  and  I hid  myself. 

Harold.  They  did  thee  wrong  who  made 
thee  hostage  ; thou 
Wast  ever  fearful. 

Wtilfnoth.  And  he  spoke  — I heard 
him  — 

“This  Harold  is  not  of  the  royal  blood, 

Can  have  no  right  to  the  crown,”  and  Odo 
said, 

“ Thine  is  the  right,  for  thine  the  might ; he 
is  here, 

And  yonder  is  thy  keep.” 

Harold.  No,Wulfnoth,  no. 

Wulfnoth.  And  William  laugh’d  and 
swore  that  might  was  right, 

Far  as  he  knew  in  this  poor  world  of  ours  — 
“ Marry,  the  Saints  must  go  along  with  us. 
And,  brother,  we  will  find  a way,”  said  he  — 
Yea,  yea,  he  would  be  king  of  England. 

Harold.  Never  I 

Wulfnoth.  Yea,  but  thou  must  not  this 
way  answer  him. 

Harold.  Is  it  not  better  still  to  speak 
the  truth? 

Wulfnoth.  Not  here,  or  thou  wilt  never 
hence  nor  I : 

For  in  the  racing  toward  this  golden  goal 
He  turns  not  right  or  left,  but  tramples  flat 
Whatever  thwarts  him  ; hast  thou  never 
heard 

His  savagery  at  AlenQon,  — the  town 


/ 


392 

Hung  out  raw  hides  along  their  walls,  and 
cried 

“Work  for  the  tanner.” 

Harold.  That  had  anger’d  me. 

Had  1 been  William. 

Wulfnoth.  Nay,  but  he  had  prisoners, 

He  tore  their  eyes  out,  sliced  their  hands 

away,  , , , i i 

And  flung  them  streaming  o er  the  battle- 
ments 

Upon  the  heads  of  those  who  walk’d  with- 
in— 

0 speak  him  fair,  Harold,  for  thine  own 

Harold.  Your  Welshman  says,  “The 
Truth  against  the  World,” 

Much  more  the  truth  against  myself. 

Wulfnoth.  Thyself? 

But  for  my  sake,  oh  brother ! oh  ! for  my 

Harold.  Poor  Wulfnoth  ! do  they  not  en- 
treat thee  well  ? 

Wul/noth.  I see  the  blackness  of  my  dun- 
geon loom 

Across  their  lamps  of  revel,  and  beyond 

The  merriest  murmurs  of  their  banquet  clank 
The  shackles  that  will  bind  me  to  the  wall. 
Harold.  Too  fearful  still. 

Wulfnoth.  Oh  no,  no  — speak  him  fair  ! 
Call  it  to  temporize  ; and  not  to  lie  ; 

Harold,  I do  not  counsel  thee  to  lie. 

The  man  that  hath  to  foil  a murderous  aim 
May,  surely,  play  with  words. 

Harold.  Words  are  the  man. 

Not  ev’n  for  thv  sake,  brother,  would  I lie. 
Wulfnoth.  then  for  thine  Edith  ? 

Harold.  There  thou  prickst  me  deep. 

Wulfnoth.  And  for  our  Mother  England  ? 
Harold.  Deeper  still. 

Wulfnoth.  And  deeper  still  the  deep-down 
oubliette, 

Down  thirty  feet  below  the  smiling  day  — 

In  blackness  — dogs’  food  thrown  upon  thy 
head. 

And  over  thee  the  suns  arise  and  set. 

And  the  lark  sings,  the  sw-eet  stars  come 
and  go. 

And  men  are  at  their  markets,  in  their  fields. 
And  woo  their  loves  and  have  forgotten  thee  ; 
And  thou  art  upright  in  thy  living  grave. 
Where  there  is  barely  room  to  shift  thy  side. 
And  ail  thine  England  hath  forgotten  thee  ; 
And  he  our  lazy-pious  Norman  King, 

With  all  his  Normans  round  him  once  again. 
Counts  his  old  beads,  and  hath  forgotten  thee. 
Harold  Thou  art  of  my  blood,  and  so  me- 
thinks,  my  boy. 

Thy  fears  infect  me  bevond  reason.  Peace  ! 
Wulfnoth.  And  then  our  fiery  Tostig, 
while  thv  hands 

Are  palsied  here,  if  his  Northumbrians  rise 
And  hurl  him  from  them,  — I have  heard 
the  Normans 

Count  upon  this  confusion  — may  he  not 
make 

A league  with  William,  so  to  bring  him 
back  ? 

ILD. 

Harold.  That  lies  within  the  shadow  of 
the  chance. 

Wulfnoth.  And  like  a river  in  flood  thro’ 
a burst  dam 

Descends  the  ruthless  Norman  — our  good 
King 

Kneels  mumbling  some  old  bone  — our  help- 
less folk 

Are  wash’d  away,  wailing,  in  their  own 
blood  — 

Harold.  Wailing!  not  warring?  Boy,  thou 
hast  forgotten 

That  thou  art  English. 

Wulfnoth.  Then  our  modest  women  — 

I know  the  Norman  license  — thine  own 
Edith  ^ 

Harold.  No  more  ! I will  not  hear  thee 
— William  comes. 

Wulfnoth.  I dare  not  well  be  seen  in 
talk  with  thee. 

Make  thou  not  mention  that  I spake  with 
thee. 

\_Moves  away  to  the  back  of  the  stage. 
Enter  William,  Malet,  arid  Officer. 
Officer.  We  have  the  man  that  rail’d 
against  thy  birth. 

William.  Tear  out  his  tongue. 

Officer.  He  shall  not  rail  again  ; 

He  said  that  he  should  see  confusion  fall 

On  thee  and  on  thine  house. 

William.  Tear  out  his  eyes, 

And  plunge  him  into  prison. 

Officer.  It  shall  be  done. 

\^Exit  Officer. 
William.  Look  not  amazed,  fair  earl  ! 
Better  leave  undone 

Than  do  by  halves — tongueless  and  eye- 
less, prison’d  — 

Harold.  Better  methinks  have  slam  the 
man  at  once  ! 

William.  We  have  respect  for  man’s  im- 
mortal soul. 

We  seldom  take  man’s  life,  except  in  war  ; 

It  frights  the  traitor  more  to  mairn  and  blind. 
Harold.  In  mine  own  land  I should  have 
scorn’d  the  man, 

Or  lash’d  his  rascal  back,  and  let  him  go. 
William.  And  let  him  go?  To  slander 
thee  again  I 

Yet  in  thine  own  land  in  thy  father’s  day 

They  blinded  my  young  kinsman,  Alfred  — 

Some  said  it  was  thy  father’s  deed. 

Harold.  They  hed. 

William.  But  thou  and  he  — whom  at 
thy  word,  for  thou 

Art  known  a speaker  of  the  truth,  I free 

From  this  foul  charge — . 

Harold.  Nay,  nay,  he  freed  himself 

By  oath  and  compurgation  from  the  charge. 
The  king,  the  lords,  the  people  clear'd  him 
of  it. 

William.  But  thou  and  he  drove  our  good 
Normans  out 

From  England,  and  this  rankles  in  us  yet. 
Archbishop  Robert  hardly  scaped  with  life. 

HAROLD. 


Harold.  Archbishop  Robert ! Robert  the 
Archbishop  ! 

Robert  of  Jumieges,  he  that  — 

Malet.  Quiet ! quiet ! 

Harold.  Count ! if  there  sat  within  thy 
Norman  chair 

A ruler  all  for  England  — one  who  fill’d 
All  offices,  all  bishoprics  with  English  — 
We  could  not  move  from  Dover  to  the  Hum- 
ber 

Saving  thro’  Norman  bishoprics — I say 
Ye  would  applaud  that  Norman  who  should 
drive 

The  stranger  to  the  fiends  ! 

William.  Why,  that  is  reason  ! 

Warrior  thou  art,  and  mighty  wise  withal  ! 
Ay,  ay,  but  many  among  our  Norman  lords 
Hate  thee  for  this,  and  press  upon  me  — say- 
ing 

God  and  the  sea  have  given  thee  to  our 
hands  — 

To  plunge  thee  into  life-long  prison  here  : — 
Yet  I hold  out  against  them,  as  I may, 

Yea  — would  hold  out,  yea,  tho’  they  should 
revolt  — 

For  thou  hast  done  the  battle  in  my  cause ; 
I am  thy  fastest  friend  in  Normandy. 

Harold.  I am  doubly  bound  to  ihee  . . . 
if  this  be  so. 

Willia7?i.  And  I would  bind  thee  more, 
and  would  myself 
Be  bounden  to  thee  more. 

Harold.  Then  let  me  hence 

With  Wulfnoth  to  King  Edward. 

William.  > So  we  will. 

We  hear  he  hath  not  long  to  live. 

Harold.  It  may  be. 

William.  Why  then  the  heir  of  England, 
who  is  he  ? 

Harold.  The  Atheling  is  nearest  to  the 
throne. 

William.  But  sickly,  slight,  half-witted 
and  a child. 

Will  England  have  him  king? 

Harold.  It  may  be,  no. 

William.  And  hath  King  Edward  not 
pronounced  his  heir? 

Harold.  Not  that  I know. 

William.  When  he  was  here  in  Nor- 
mandy, 

He  loved  us  and  we  him,  because  we  found 
him 

A Norman  of  the  Normans. 

Harold.  So  did  we. 

William.  A gentle,  gracious,  pure  and 
saintly  man  ! 

And  grateful  to  the  hand  that  shielded  him. 
He  promised  that  if  ever  he  were  king 
In  England,  he  would  give  his  kingly  voice 
To  me  as  his  successor.  Knowest  thou  this  ? 

Harold.  I learn  it  now. 

Williain.  Thou  knowest  I am  his  cousin. 
And  that  my  wife  descends  from  Alfred? 

Harold.  Ay. 

William.  Who  hath  a better  claim  then 
to  the  crown 

So  that  ye  will  not  crown  the  Atheling? 


393 

Harold.  None  that  I know  ...  if  that 
but  hung  upon 

King  Edward’s  will. 

William.  Wilt  thou  uphold  my  claim? 

Malet  [aside  to  Harold).  Be  careful  of 
thine  answer,  my  good  friend. 

Wul/noth  (aside  to  ilAYLOUG).  Oh!  Har- 
old, for  my  sake  and  for  thine  own  ! 

Harold.  Ay  ...  if  the  king  have  not  re- 
voked his  promise. 

William.  But  hath  he  done  it  then  ? 

Harold.  Not  that  I know\ 

William.  Good,  good,  and  thou  wilt  help 
me  to  the  crown. 

Harold.  Ay  ...  if  the  Witan  will  con- 
sent to  this. 

William.  Thou  art  the  mightiest  voice 
in  England,  man. 

Thy  voice  will  lead  the  Witan  — shall  1 
have  it? 

Wulfnoth  [aside  to  Harold).  Oh  ! Har- 
old, if  thou  love  thine  Edith,  ay. 

Harold.  Ay,  if — 

Malet  [aside  to  Harold).  Thine  “ifs” 
will  sear  thine  eyes  out  — ay. 

William.  I ask  thee,  wilt  thou  help  me 
to  the  crowm  ? 

And  I w'ill  make  thee  my  great  Earl  of  Earls, 

Foremost  in  England  and  in  Normandy  ; 

Thou  shalt  be  verily  king  — all  but  the 
name  — 

For  I shall  most  sojourn  in  Normandy  ; 

And  thou  be  my  vice-king  in  England. 
Speak. 

Wulftoth  [aside  to  Harold).  Ay,  broth- 
er — for  the  sake  of  England  — ay. 

Harold.  My  lord  — 

Malet  [aside  to  Harold).  Take  heed  now. 

Harold.  Ay. 

William.  I am  content. 

For  thou  art  truthful,  and  thy  word  thy 
bond. 

To-morrow  will  we  ride  with  thee  to  Har- 
fleur.  {Exit  William. 

Malet.  Harold,  I am  thy  friend,  one  life 
with  thee. 

And  even  as  I should  bless  thee,  saving  mine, 

I thank  thee  now  for  having  saved  thyself. 

{Exit  Malet. 

Harold.  For  having  lost  myself  to  save 
myself. 

Said  “ay”  when  I meant  “no,”  lied  like 
a lad 

That  dreads  the  pendent  scourge,  said  “ ay  ” 
for  “ no  ! ” 

Ay!  No!  — he  hath  not  bound  me  by  an 
oath  — 

Is  “ay”  an  oath?  is  “ay”  strong  as  an 
oath  ? 

Or  is  it  the  same  sin  to  break  my  word 

As  break  mine  oath?  He  call’d  my  word 
my  bond  ! 

He  is  a liar  who  knows  I am  a liar. 

And  makes  believe  that  he  believes  my 
word  — 

The  crime  be  on  his  head  — not  bounden  — 
no. 


/ 


394  HAROLD, 


\_Suddenly  doors  are  flu7tg  open,  dis- 
covering in  an  inner  hall  Count 
William  in  his  state  robes,  seated 
upon  his  throne,  between  two  bish- 
ops^ Quo  OF  Bayeux  being  one:  in 
the  centre  of  the  hall  an  ark  covered 
with  cloth  of  gold  ; and  on  either  side 
of  it  the  Norman  barons. 

Enter  a Jailer  before  William’s  throne. 

William  (^^7  Jailer).  Knave,  hast  thou 
let  thy  prisoner  scape 

Jailer.  Sir  Count, 

He  had  but  one  foot,  he  must  have  hopt 
away ; 

Yea,  some  familiar  spirit  must  have  help’d 
him. 

William.  Woe  knave  to  thy  familiar  and 
to  thee  ! 

Give  me  thy  keys.  [ They  Jail  clashing. 

Nay,  let  them  lie.  Stand  there  and  wait 
my  will.  VThe  Jailer  stands  aside. 

William  {to  Harold).  Hast  thou  such 
trustless  jailers  in  thy  North 

Harold.  We  have  few  prisoners  in  mine 
earldom  there, 

So  less  chance  for  false  keepers. 

William.  We  have  heard 

Of  thy  just,  mild,  and  equal  governance  ; 

Honor  to  thee  ! thou  art  perfect  in  all  hon- 
or ! 

'J  hy  naked  word  thy  bond  ! confirm  it  now 

Before  our  gather’d  Norman  baronage, 

For  they  will  not  believe  thee  — as  I be- 
lieve. 

[Descends  from  his  throne  and  stands 
by  the  .i.rk. 

Let  all  men  here  bear  witness  of  our  bond  ! 

[Beckons  to  Harold,  who  advances. 
Enter  Malet  behind  him. 

Lay  thou  thy  hand  upon  this  golden  pall  ! 

Behold  the  jewel  of  St.  Pancratius 

Woven  into  the  gold.  Swear  thou  on  this  ! 

Harold.  What  should  I swear?  Why 
should  I swear  on  this? 

William  {savagely).  Swear  thou  to  help 
me  to  the  crown  of  England. 

Malet  ^whispering  Harold).  My  friend, 
thou  hast  gone  too  far  to  palter  now. 

Wulfioth  {whispering  Harold).  Swear 
thou  to-day,  to-morrow  is  thine  own. 

Harold.  I swear  to  help  thee  to  the  crowm 
of  Pmgland  . . . 

According  as  King  Edward  promises. 

Wilham.  Thou  must  swear  absolutely, 
noble  Earl. 

Malet  {whisper mg).  Delay  is  death  to 
thee,  ruin  to  England. 

WtUfnoth  {whispering).  Swear,  dearest 
brother,  I beseech  thee,  swear  ! 

Harold  {putting  his  hand  07t  the  jewel).  I 
swear  to  help  thee  to  the  crown  of 
England. 

William.  Thanks,  truthful  Earl;  I did 
not  doubt  thy  word. 

But  that  my  barons  might  believe  thy  word. 

And  that  the  Holy  Saints  of  Normandy 


When  thou  art  home  in  England,  with  thine 
own, 

Might  strengthen  thee  in  keeping  of  thy 
word, 

I made  tnee  swear,  — Show  him  by  whom 
he  hath  sworn. 

[The  two  Bishops  advance,  and  raise  the 
cloth  of  gold.  The  bodies  and  bones 
of  Saints  a7  e seen  lying  in  the  ark. 
The  holy  bones  of  all  the  Canonized 
From  all  the  holiest  shrines  in  Normandy  ! 

Harold.  Horrible  ! 

[ They  let  the  cloth  fall  again. 

William.  Ay,  for  thou  hast  sworn  an  oath 
Which,  if  not  kept,  would  make  the  hard 
earth  rive 

To  the  very  Devil’s  horns,  the  bright  sky 
cleave 

To  the  very  feet  of  God,  and  send  her  hosts 
Of  injured  Saints  to  scatter  sparks  of  plague 
Thro’  all  your  cities,  blast  your  infants,  dash 
The  torch  of  war  among  your  standing  corn. 
Dabble  your  hearths  with  your  own  blood.  — 
Enough  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  break  it  ! I,  the  Count  — the 
King  — 

Thy  friend  — am  grateful  for  thine  honest 
oath. 

Not  coming  fiercely  like  a conqueror,  now', 
But  softly  as  a bridegroom  to  his  own. 

For  I shall  rule  according  to  your  law's,  * 
And  make  your  ever-jarring  Earldoms  move 
To  music  and  in  order — Angle,  Jute, 

Dane,  Saxon,  Norman,  help  to  build  a throne 
Out-towering  hers  of  France.  . . . The  wind 
is  fair 

For  England  now.  . . . To-night  we  will  be 
merry. 

To-morrow  will  I ride  w'ith  thee  to  Harfleur. 

[Exeunt  William  and  all  the  Norman 
barons,  etc. 

Harold.  To-night  we  will  be  merry  — and 
to-morrow  — 

Juggler  and  bastard  — bastard  — he  hates 
that  most  — 

William  the  tanner’s  bastard  ! Would  he 
heard  me  ! 

0 God,  that  I were  in  some  wide,  waste  field 
With  nothing  but  my  battle-axe  and  him 
To  spatter  his  brains  ! Why  let  earth  rive, 

gulf  in 

These  cursed  Normans — yea  and  mine  ow'n 
self. 

Cleave  heaven,  and  send  thy  saints  that  I 
may  say 

Ev’n  to  their  faces,  “If  ye  side  with  William 
Ye  are  not  noble.”  How  their  pointed  fin- 
gers 

Glared  at  me  ! Am  I Harold,  Harold  son 
Of  our  great  Godwin  ? Lo  ! I touch  mine 
arms. 

My  limbs  — they  are  not  mine  — they  are  a 
liar’s  — 

1 mean  to  be  a liar — I am  not  bound  — 
Stigand  shall  give  me  absolution  for  it  — 

Did  the  chest  move?  did  it  move?  I am 

utter  craven  ! 


HAROLD, 


0 Wulfnoth,  Wulfnoth,  brother,  thou  hast 

betray’d  me  ! 

Wulfnoth.  Forgive  me,  brother,  I will 
live  here  and  die. 

Enter  Page. 

Page.  My  lord  ! the  Duke  awaits  thee  at 
the  banquet. 

Harold.  Where  they  eat  dead  men’s  flesh, 
and  drink  their  blood. 

Page.  My  lord  — 

Harold.  I know  your  Norman  cookery  is 
so  spiced, 

It  masks  all  this. 

Page.  My  lord  ! thou  art  white  as  death. 
Harold.  With  looking  on  the  dead.  Am 
I so  white  ? 

Thy  Duke  w'ill  seem  the  darker.  Hence,  I 
follow.  \_Exeunt. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.  — THE  KING’S  PALACE. 

LONDON. 

King  Edward  dying  on  a couch,  and 
by  him  standing  the  Queen,  Harold, 
Archblshop  Stigand,  Gurth,  Leof- 
wiN,  Archbishop  Aldred,  Aldwyth, 
and  Edith. 

Stigand.  Sleeping  or  dying  there  ? If 
this  be  death, 

Then  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown  thee 
King  — 

Come  hither,  I have  a power  : \to  Harold. 
They  call  me  near,  for  I am  close  to  thee 
And  England  — I,  old  shrivell’d  Stigand,  I, 
Dry  as  an  old  wood-fungus  on  a dead  tree, 

1 have  a power  ! 

See  here  this  little  key  about  my  neck  ! 
There  lies  a treasure  buried  down  in  Ely  : 

If  e’er  the  Norman  grow  too  hard  for  thee. 
Ask  me  for  this  at  thy  most  need,  son  Harold, 
At  thy  most  need  — not  sooner. 

Harold.  So  I will. 

Stigand.  Red  gold  — a hundred  purses  — 
yea,  and  more  ! 

If  thou  canst  make  a wholesome  use  of  these 
To  chink  against  the  Norman,  I do  believe 
My  old  crook’d  spine  w'ould  bud  out  two 
young  wings 

To  fly  to  heaven  straight  with. 

Harold.  Thank  thee,  father  ! 

Thou  art  English,  Edward  too  is  English 
now  : 

He  hath  clean  repented  of  his  Normanism. 
Stigand.  Ay,  as  the  libertine  repents  who 
cannot 

Make  done  undone,  when  thro*  his  dying 
sense 

Shrills  “ lost  thro’  thee.”  They  have  built 
their  castles  here  ; 

Our  priories  are  Norman  ; the  Norman  adder 
Hath  bitten  us  ; we  are  poison’d  : our  dear 
England 

Is  demi-Norman.  He!  — 

\_Pointing  to  King  Edward  sleeping. 


395 

Harold.  I would  I were 

As  holy  and  as  passionless  as  he  ! 

That  1 might  rest  as  calmiy ! Look  at  him  — 
The  rosy  face,  and  long  down-silvering  beard, 
The  brows  unwrinkled  as  a summer  mere  — 
. Stigatid.  A summer  mere  with  sudden 
w'reckful  gusts 

From  a side-gorge.  Passionless?  How  he 
flamed 

When  Tostig’s  anger’d  earldom  flung  him, 

He  fain  had  calcined  all  Northumbria 
To  one  black  ash,  but  that  thy  patriot  passion 
Siding  with  our  great  Council  against  I'ostig, 
Out-passion’d  his  ! Holy?  ay,  ay,  forsooth, 
A conscience  for  his  own  soul,  not  his  realm  ; 
A twilight  conscience  lighted  thro’  a chink  ; 
Thine  by  the  sun  ; nay,  by  some  sun  to  be. 
When  all  the  world  hath  learnt  to  speak  the 
truth, 

And  lying  were  self-murder  by  that  state 
Which  was  the  exception. 

Harold.  I'hat  sun  may  God  speed  I 

Stigand.  Come,  Harold,  shake  the  cloud 
off! 

Harold.  Can  I,  father? 

Our  Tostig  parted  cursing  me  and  England  ; 
Our  sister  hates  us  for  his  banishment  ; 

He  hath  gone  to  kindle  Norway  against  Eng- 
land, 

And  Wulfnoth  is  alone  in  Normandy. 

For  when  I rode  with  William  down  to  Har- 
fleur, 

‘‘Wulfnoth  is  sick,”  he  said;  “he  cannot 
follow  ” ; 

Then  with  that  friendly-fiendly  smile  of  his, 
“We  have  learnt  to  love  him,  let  him  a little 
longer 

Remain  a hostage  for  the  loyalty 
Of  Godwin’s  house.”  As  far  as  touches  Wulf- 
noth, 

I that  so  prized  plain  word  and  naked  truth 
Have  sinn’d  against  it  — all  in  vain. 

Leofwm.  Good  brother, 

By  all  the  truths  that  ever  priest  hath 
preach’d, 

Of  all  the  lies  that  ever  men  have  lied. 

Thine  is  the  pardonablest. 

Harold.  May  be  so  ! 

I think  it  so,  I think  I am  a fool 
To  think  it  can  be  otherwise  than  so. 

Stigand.  Tut,  tut,  I have  absolved  thee  : 
dost  thou  scorn  me. 

Because  I had  my  Canterbury  pallium 
From  one  whom  they  dispoped? 

Harold.  No,  Stigand,  no  I 

Stigand.  Is  naked  truth  actable  in  true 
life? 

I have  heard  a saying  of  thy  father  Godwin, 
That,  were  a man  of  state  nakedly  true, 

Men  w'ould  but  take  him  for  the  craftier  liar. 
Leofwin.  Be  men  less  delicate  than  the 
Devil  himself? 

I thought  that  naked  Truth  would  shame  the 
Devil, 

The  Devil  is  so  modest. 

Gurth.  He  never  said  it ! 


HAROLD. 


396 


Leofwin.  Be  thou  not  stupid-honest, 
brother  Gurth  ! 

Harold.  Better  to  be  a liar’s  dog,  and  hold 
My  master  honest,  than  believe  that  lying 
And  ruling  men  are  fatal  twins  that  cannot 
Move  one  without  the  other.  Edward 
wakes  ! — 

Dazed  — he  hath  seen  a vision. 

Ed'iuard.  The  green  tree  ! 

Then  a great  Angel  past  along  the  highest 
Crying  “ the  doom  of  England,”  and  at  once 
He  stood  beside  me,  in  his  grasp  a sword 
Of  lightnings,  wherewithal  he  cleft  the  tree 
From  off  the  bearing  trunk,  and  hurl’d  it 
from  him 

Three  fields  away,  and  then  he  dash’d  and 
drench’d, 

He  dyed,  he  soak’d  the  trunk  with  human 
blood, 

And  brought  the  sunder’d  tree  again,  and 
set  it 

Straight  on  the  trunk,  that  thus  baptized  in 
blood 

Grew  ever  high  and  higher,  beyond  my  see- 
ing, 

And  shot  out  sidelong  boughs  across  the  deep 
That  dropt  themselves,  and  rooted  in  far  isles 
Beyond  my  seeing  : and  the  great  Angel  rose 
And  past  again  along  the  highest  crying 
‘‘  The  doom  of  England  ! ” — Tostig,  raise 
my  head  ! [Falls  back  senseless. 

Harold  [raising^  him).  Let  Harold  serve 
for  Tostig  ! 

Queen.  Harold  served 

Tostig  so  ill,  he  cannot  serve  for  Tostig  ! 

Ay,  raise  his  head,  for  thou  hast  laid  it  low  ! 
The  sickness  of  our  saintly  king,  for  W'hom 
My  prayers  go  up  as  fast  as  my  tears  fall, 

I well  believe,  hath  mainly  drawn  itself 
From  lack  of  Tostig — thou  hast  banish’d 
him. 

Harold.  Nay  — but  the  Council,  and  the 
king  himself ! 

Queen.  Thou  hatest  him,  hatest  him. 

Harold  {coldly).  Ay  — Stigand,  unriddle 
This  vision,  canst  thou  ? 

Stigand.  Dotage  ! 

Edward  {starting  up).  It  is  finish’d. 
I have  built  the  Lord  a house  — the  Lord 
hath  dw'elt 

In  darkness.  I have  built  the  Lord  a 
house  — 

Palms,  flowers,  pomegranates,  golden  cheru- 
bim 

With  twenty-cubit  wrings  from  wall  to  w'all  — 
1 have  built  the  Lord  a house  — sing,  Asaph  ! 
clash 

The  cymbal,  Heman  ! blow  the  trumpet, 
priest  ! 

Fall,  cloud,  and  fill  the  house  — lo  ! my  two 
pillars, 

Jachin  and  Boaz  ! — 

[Seeing  Harold  and  Gurth. 
Harold.  Gurth, — w'here  am  I? 
Where  is  the  charter  of  our  Westminster? 

Stigand.  It  lies  beside  thee,  king,  upon 
thy  bed. 


I Edward.  Sign,  sign  at  once  — take,  sign 
I it,  Stigand,  Aldred  ! 

Sign  it,  my  good  son  Harold,  Gurth,  and 
Leofwin, 

Sign  it,  my  queen  ! 

All.  We  have  sign’d  it. 

Edward.  It  is  finish’d  ! 

The  kingliest  Abbey  in  all  Christian  lands, 
The  lordliest,  loftiest  minster  ever  built 
To  Holy  Peter  in  our  English  isle  ! 

Let  me  be  buried  there,  and  all  our  kings. 
And  all  our  just  and  wise  and  holy  men 
That  shall  be  born  hereafter.  It  is  finish’d  ! 
Hast  thou  had  absolution  for  thine  oath? 

[To  Harold. 

Harold.  Stigand  hath  given  me  absolution 
for  it. 

Edward.  Stigand  is  not  canonical  enough 
To  save  thee  from  the  wrath  of  Norman 
Saints. 

Stigand.  Norman  enough  ! Be  there  no 
Saints  of  England 

To  help  us  from  their  brethren  yonder? 

Edward.  Prelate, 

The  Saints  are  one,  but  those  of  Norman- 
land 

Are  mightier  than  our  own.  Ask  it  of 
Aldred.  [To  Harold. 

A Idred.  It  shall  be  granted  him,  my  king  ; 
for  he 

Who  vows  a vow  to  strangle  his  own  mother 
Is  guiltier  keeping  this,  than  breaking  it. 
Edward.  O friends,  I shall  not  overlive 
the  day. 

Stigand.  Why  then  the  throne  is  empty. 
Who  inherits  ? 

For  tho’  we  be  not  bound  by  the  king’s  voice 
In  making  of  a king,  yet  the  king’s  voice 
Is  much  toward  his  making.  Who  inherits? 
Edgar  the  Atheling  ? 

Edward.  No,  no,  but  Harold. 

I love  him  : he  hath  served  me  : none  but  he 
Can  rule  all  England.  Yet  the  curse  is  on 
him 

For  swearing  falsely  by  those  blessed  bones  ; 
He  did  not  mean  to  keep  his  vow. 

Harold.  Not  mean 

To  make  our  England  Norman. 

Edward.  I here  spake  Godwin, 

Who  hated  all  the  Normans;  but  their  Saints 
Have  heard  thee,  Harold. 

Edith  Oh  ! my  lord,  my  king  ! 

He  knew  not  whom  he  sware  by. 

Edward.  Yea,  I know 

He  knew  not,  but  those  heavenly  ears  have 
heard. 

Their  curse  is  on  him  ; wilt  thou  bring  an- 
other, 

Edith,  upon  his  head? 

Edith  No,  no,  not  I. 

Edward.  Why  then,  thou  must  not  wed 
him. 

Harold  Wherefore,  wherefore  ? 
Edward.  O son,  when  thou  didst  tell  me 
of  thine  oath, 

I sorrow’d  for  my  random  promise  given 
To  yon  fox-lion.  I did  not  dream  then 


HAROLD. 


I should  be  king.  — My  son,  the  Saints  are 
virgins ; 

They  love  the  white  rose  of  virginity, 

The  cold,  white  lily  blowing  in  her  cell  : 

I have  been  myself  a virgin  ; and  I sware 
To  consecrate  my  virgin  here  to  lieaven  — 
The  silent,  cloister’d,  solitary  life, 

A life  of  life-long  prayer  against  the  curse 
That  lies  on  thee  and  England. 

Harold.  No,  no,  no. 

Edward.  Treble  denial  of  the  tongue  of 
flesh, 

I.ike  Peter’s  when  he  fell,  and  thou  wilt  have 
To  wail  for  it  like  Peter.  O my  son  ! 

Are  all  oaths  to  be  broken  then,  all  promises 
Made  in  our  agony  for  help  from  heaven  ? 
Son,  there  is  one  who  loves  thee  : and  a 
wife, 

What  matters  who,  so  she  be  serviceable 
In  all  obedience,  as  mine  own  hath  been  : 
God  bless  thee,  wedded  daughter 

\_Laying  his  hand  on  the  Quhen’s  head. 
Qtieen.  Bless  thou  too 

That  brother  whom  I love  beyond  the  rest. 
My  banish’d  Tostig. 

Edward.  All  the  sweet  Saints  bless  him  ! 
Spare  and  forbear  him,  Harold,  if  he  comes  ! 
And  let  him  pass  unscathed  ; he  loves  me, 
Harold  ! 

Be  kindly  to  the  Normans  left  among  us, 
Who  follow’d  me  for  love ! and  dear  son, 
sw^ear, 

When  thou  art  king,  to  see  my  solemn  vow 
Accomplish’d  ! 

Harold.  Nay,  dear  lord,  for  I have  sworn 
Not  to  swear  falsely  twice. 

Edward.  Thou  wilt  not  swear  ? 

Harold.  I cannot. 

Edward.  Then  on  thee  remains  the  curse, 
Harold,  if  thou  embrace  her;  and  on  thee, 
Edith,  if  thou  abide  it,  — 

\T he  YiiViG  swoons  ; Edith  falls  and 
kneels  by  the  couch. 

Stigand.  He  hath  swoon’d  ! 

Death  ? ...  no,  as  yet  a breath. 

Harold.  Look  up  ! look  up  ! 

Edith  ! 

Aldred.  Confuse  her  not ; she  hath  begun 
Her  life-long  prayer  for  thee. 

Aldwyth.  O noble  Harold, 

I would  thou  couldst  have  sw'orn. 

Harold.  For  thine  own  pleasure? 

Aldwyth.  No,  but  to  please  our  dying 
king,  and  those 

Who  make  thy  good  their  own  — all  Eng- 
land, Earl, 

A Idred.  I w'ould  thou  couldst  have  sworn. 
Our  holy  king 

Hath  given  his  virgin  lamb  to  Holy  Church 
To  save  thee  from  the  curse. 

Harold.  Alas  ! poor  man. 

His  promise  brought  it  on  me. 

A Idred.  O good  son  ! 

That  knowledge  made  him  all  the  carefuller 
To  find  a means  whereby  the  curse  might 
glance 

From  thee  and  England. 


397 

Harold  Father,  we  so  loved  — 

Aldred.  I'he  more  the  love,  the  mightier 
is  the  prayer  ; 

The  more  the  love,  the  more  acceptable 
The  sacrifice  of  both  your  loves  to  heaven. 
No  sacrifice  to  heaven,  no  help  from  heaven  ; 
I'hat  runs  thro’  all  the  faiths  of  all  the  w'orld. 
And  sacrifice  there  must  be,  for  the  king 
Is  holy,  and  hath  talk’d  with  God,  and  seen 
A shadowing  horror;  there  are  signs  in 
heaven  — 

Harold.  Your  comet  came  and  went. 

A Idred.  And  signs  on  earth  ! 

Knowest  thou  Senlac  hill  ? 

Harold.  I know  all  Sussex; 

A good  intrenchment  for  a perilous  hour  ! 

Aldred.  Pray  God  that  come  not  sud- 
denly ! There  is  one 

Who  passing  by  that  hill  three  nights  ago  — 
He  shook  so  that  he  scarce  could  out  w'ith 
it  — 

Heard,  heard  — 

Harold.  The  wind  in  his  hair? 

A Idred.  A ghostly  horn 

Blowing  continually,  and  faint  battle  hymns, 
And  cries,  and  clashes,  and  the  groans  of 
men  ; 

And  dreadful  shadow's  strove  upon  the  hill, 
And  dreadful  lights  crept  up  from  out  the 
marsh  — 

Corpse-candles  gliding  over  nameless 
graves  — 

Harold.  At  Senlac? 

A Idred.  Senlac. 

Edward  {waking).  Senlac!  Sanguelac, 
The  Lake  of  Blood  ! 

Stigand.  This  lightning  before  death 
Plays  on  the  word,  — and  Normanizes  too  I 

Harold.  Hush,  father,  hush  ! 

Edward.  Thou  uncanonical  fool. 

Wilt  thou  play  with  the  thunder?  North 
and  South 

Thunder  together,  showers  of  blood  are 
blown 

Before  a never-ending  blast,  and  hiss 
Against  the  blaze  they  cannot  quench  — a 
lake, 

A sea  of  blood  — we  are  drow'n’d  in  blood 
— for  God 

Has  fill’d  the  quiver,  and  Death  has  drawn 
the  bow  — 

Sanguelac  I Sanguelac  I the  arrow  ! the  ar- 
row' ! [Dies. 

Stigand.  It  is  the  arrow  of  death  in  his 
own  heart  — 

And  our  great  Council  wait  to  crown  thee 
King. 

SCENETI.  — INTHEGARDEN.  THE 
KING’S  HOUSE  NEAR  LONDON. 

Edith.  Crown’d,  crown’d  and  lost,  crown’d 
King  — and  lost  to  me  I 

{Singing.) 

Two  young  lovers  in  winter  weather, 

None  to  guide  them, 

Walk’d  at  night  on  the  misty  heather ; 


39S 


HAROLD. 


/. 


Night,  as  black  as  a raven’s  feather ; 

Both  were  lost  and  found  together, 

None  beside  them. 

That  is  the  burthen  of  it  — lost  and  found 
Together  in  the  cruel  river  Swale 
A hundred  years  ago  ; and  there ’s  another, 
Lost,  lost,  the  light  of  day. 

To  which  the  lover  answers  lovingly, 

“ I am  beside  thee.” 

Lost,  lost,  we  have  lost  the  way. 

“ Love,  I will  guide  thee.” 

Whither,  O whither?  into  the  river, 

Where  we  two  may  be  lost  together. 

And  lost  forever?  “Oh!  never,  oh!  never, 
Tho’  we  be  lost  and  be  found  together.” 

Some  think  they  loved  within  the  pale  for- 
bidden 

By  Holy  Church;  but  who  shall  say?  the 
truth 

Was  lost  in  that  fierce  North,  where  they 
were  lost, 

Where  all  good  things  are  lost,  where  Tos- 
tig  lost 

The  good  hearts  of  his  people.  It  is  Har- 
old ! 

Enter  Harold. 

Harold,  the  King ! 

Harold.  Call  me  not  King,  but  Harold. 
Edith.  Nay,  thou  art  King  ! 

Harold.  Thine,  thine,  or  King  or  churl ! 
My  girl,  thou  hast  been  weeping;  turn  not 
thou 

Thy  face  away,  but  rather  let  me  be 
King  of  the  moment  to  thee,  and  command 
That  kiss  my  due  when  subject,  which  will 
make 

My  kingship  kinglier  to  me  than  to  reign 
King  of  the  world  without  it. 

Edith.  Ask  me  not. 

Lest  1 should  yield  it,  and  the  second  curse 
Descend  upon  thine  head,  and  thou  be  only 
King  of  the  moment  over  England. 

Harold.  Edith, 

Tho’  somewhat  less  a king  to  my  true  self 
Than  ere  they  crown’d  me  one,  for  I have 
lost 

Somewhat  of  upright  stature  thro’  mine  oath. 
Yet  thee  I would  not  lose,  and  sell  not  thou 
Our  living  passion  for  a dead  man’s  dream  ; 
Stigand  believed  he  knew  not  what  he 
spake. 

Oh  God  ! I cannot  help  it,  but  at  times 
They  seem  to  me  too  narrow,  all  the  faiths 
Of  this  grown  world  of  ours,  whose  baby 

Saw  them  sufficient.  Fool  and  wise,  I fear 
This  curse,  and  scorn  it.  But  a little  light ! — 
And  on  it  falls  the  shadow  of  the  priest ; 
Heaven  yield  us  more!  for  better,  Woden, 
all 

Our  cancell’d  warrior-gods,  our  grim  Wal- 
halla. 

Eternal  war,  than  that  the  Saints  at  peace 
The  Holiest  of  our  Holiest  one  should  be 
This  William’s  fellow-tricksters ; — better  die 
Than  credit  this,  for  death  is  death,  or  else 


Lifts  us  beyond  the  lie.  Kiss  me  — thou 
art  not 

A holy  sister  yet,  my  girl,  to  fear 
There  might  be  more  than  brother  in  my 
kiss. 

And  more  than  sister  in  thine  own. 

Edith.  I dare  not. 

Harold.  Scared  by  the  church  — “ Love 
for  a whole  life  long  ” 

When  was  that  sung  ? 

Edith.  Here  to  the  nightingales. 

Harold.  Their  anthems  of  no  church,  how 
sweet  they  are  ! 

Nor  kingly  priest,  nor  priestly  king  to  cross 
Their  billings  ere  they  nest. 

Edith.  They  are  but  of  spring. 

They  fly  the  winter  change  — not  so  with 
us  — 

No  wings  to  come  and  go. 

Harold.  But  wing’d  souls  flying 

Beyond  all  change  and  in  the  eternal  dis- 
tance 

To  settle  on  the  Truth. 

Edith.  They  are  not  so  true, 

They  change  their  mates. 

Harold.  Do  they  ? I did  not  know  it. 

Edith.  They  say  thou  art  to  wed  the  Lady 
. Aldwyth. 

Harold.  They  say,  they  say. 

Edith.  If  this  be  politic. 

And  well  for  thee  and  England  — and  for 
her  — 

Care  not  for  me  who  love  thee. 

Gurth  {calling).  Harold,  Harold  ! 

Harold.  The  voice  of  Gurth ! {Enter 
Gurth.)  Good  even,  my  good  broth- 
er! 

Gurth.  Good  even,  gentle  Edith. 

Edith.  Good  even,  Gurth. 

Gurth.  Ill  news  hath  come  I Our  hap- 
less brother,  Tostig  — 

He,  and  the  giant  King  of  Norway,  Harold 
Hardrada  — Scotland,  Ireland,  Iceland, 
Orkney, 

Are  landed  North  of  Humber,  and  in  a field 
So  packt  with  carnage  that  the  dikes  and 
brooks 

Were  bridged  and  damm’d  with  dead,  have 
overthrown 
Morcar  and  Edwin. 

Harold.  Well  then,  we  must  fight. 

How  blows  the  wind  ? 

Gurth.  Against  St.  Valery 

And  William. 

Harold.  Well  then,  we  will  to  the  North. 

Gtirth.  Ay,  but  worse  news  : this  Wil- 
liam sent  to  Rome, 

Swearing  thou  swarest  falsely  by  his  Saints  : 
The  Pope  and  that  Archdeacon  Hildebrand 
His  master,  heard  him,  and  have  sent  him 
back 

A holy  gonfanon,  and  a blessed  hair 
Of  Peter,  and  all  France,  all  Burgundy, 
Poitou,  all  Christendom,  is  raised  against 
thee ; 

He  hath  cursed  thee,  and  all  those  who  fight 
for  thee, 


HAROLD*  399 


And  given  thy  realm  of  England  to  the  bas- 
tard. 

HaroLU.  Ha  ! ha  ! 

Edith.  Oh  ! laugh  not  ! . . . Strange  and 
ghastly  in  the  gloom 

And  shadowing  of  this  double  thunder-cloud 
That  lowers  on  England  — laughter  ! 

Harold.  No,  not  strange  ! 

This  was  old  human  laughter  in  old  Rome 
Before  a Pope  was  born,  when  that  which 
reign’d 

Call’d  itself  God.  — A kindly  rendering 
Of  “ Render  unto  Caesar.”  . . . The  Good 
Shepherd  ! 

Take  this,  and  render  that. 

Gurth.  They  have  taken  York. 

Harold.  The  Lord  was  God  and  came  as 
man  — the  Pope 

Is  man  and  comes  as  God.  — York  taken  ? 

Gurth.  Yea, 

Tostig  hath  taken  York  ! 

Harold.  To  York  then.  Edith, 

Hadst  thou  been  braver,  I had  better  braved 
All  — but  I love  thee  and  thou  me  — and 
that 

Remains  beyond  all  chances  and  all  church- 
es, 

And  that  thou  knowest. 

Edith.  Ay,  but  take  back  thy  ring. 

It  burns  my  hand  — a curse  to  thee  and  me. 

1 dare  not  w-ear  it. 

[Proffers  Harold  the  rmg,  which  he 
takes. 

Harold.  But  I dare.  God  with  thee  ! 

[Exeunt  Harold  and  Gurth. 
Edith.  The  King  hath  cursed  him,  if  he 
marry  me  ; 

The  Pope  hath  cursed  him,  marry  me  or  no  ! 
God  help  me  ! I know’  nothing  — can  but 
pray 

For  Harold  — pray,  pray,  pray — no  help 
but  prayer, 

A breath  that  fleets  beyond  this  iron  world, 
And  touches  Him  that  made  it. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  — IN  NORTHUMBRIA. 

Archbishop  Aldred,  Morcar,  Edwin, 
and  Forces.  Enter  Harold;  the  stand- 
ard of  the  golden  Dragon  of  IV essex  pre- 
ceding him. 

Harold.  What  ! are  thy  people  sullen 
from  defeat  ? 

Our  Wessex  dragon  flies  beyond  the  Hum- 
ber, 

No  voice  to  greet  it. 

Edwin  Let  not  our  great  king 

Believe  us  sullen  — only  shamed  to  the  quick 
Before  the  king  — as  having  been  so  bruised 
By  Harold,  king  of  Norway  ; but  our  help 
Is  Harold,  king  of  England.  Pardon  us, 
thou  ! 

Our  silence  is  our  reverence  for  the  king ! 


Harold.  Earl  of  the  Mercians!  if  the 
truth  be  gall, 

Cram  me  not  thou  with  honey,  when  our 
good  hive 

Needs  every  sting  to  save  it. 

Voices.  Aldwyth  ! Aldwyth  1 

Harold.  Why  cry  thy  people  on  thy  sis- 
ter’s name  ? 

Morcar.  She  hath  w'on  upon  our  people 
thro’  her  beauty. 

And  pleasantness  among  them. 

V oices.  ^ Aldwyth,  Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.  They  shout  as  they  would  have 
her  for  a queen. 

Morcar.  She  hath  followed  with  our  host, 
and  suffer'd  all. 

Harold.  What  w'ould  ye,  men? 

V oice.  Our  old  Northumbrian  crowm, 
And  kings  of  our  own  choosing. 

Harold.  ^ Your  old  crown 

Were  little  help  w'ithout  our  Saxon  carles 
Against  Hardrada. 

V oice.  Little  ! w’e  are  Danes, 

Who  conquer’d  what  we  walk  on,  our  own. 
field. 

Harold.  They  have  been  plotting  here  ! 

[A  side. 

V oice.  He  calls  us  little  ! 

Harold.  The  kingdoms  of  this  w orld  be- 
gan with  little, 

A hill,  a fort,  a city — that  reach’d  a hand 
Down  to  the  field  beneath  it,  “ Be  thou 
mine,  ” 

Then  to  the  next,  “Thou  also” — if  the 
field 

Cried  out  “ I am  mine  own  ” ; another  hill. 
Or  fort,  or  city,  took  it,  and  the  first 
Fell,  and  the  next  became  an  Empire. 

Voice.  Y et 

Thou  art  but  a West  Saxon  : we  are  Danes  I 
Harold.  My  mother  is  a Dane,  and  I am 
English  ; 

There  is  a pleasant  fable  in  old  books, 

Ye  take  a stick,  and  break  it ; bind  a score 
All  in  one  fagot,  snap  it  over  knee, 

Ye  cannot. 

Voice.  Hear  King  Harold  ! he  says  true  ! 
Harold.  Would  ye  be  Norsemen? 

Voices.  No ! 

Harold.  Or  Norman? 

Voices.  N o ! 

Harold.  Snap  not  the  fagot-band  then. 
Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

[Voice.  Ay,  but  thou  art  not  kingly,  only 
grandson 

To  Wulfnoth,  a poor  cow-herd. 

Harold.  This  old  Wulfnoth 

Would  take  me  on  his  knees  and  tell  me 
tales 

Of  Alfred  and  of  Athelstan  the  Great 
Who  drove  you  Danes  ; and  yet  he  held  that 
Dane, 

Jute,  Angle,  Saxon,  were  or  should  be  all 
One  England,  for  this  cow-herd,  like  my 
father. 

Who  shook  the  Norman  scoundrels  off  the 
throne. 


/ 


400  HAROLD, 


Had  in  him  kingly  thoughts  — a king  of 
men, 

Not  made  but  born,  like  the  great  King  of 
all, 

A light  among  the  oxen. 

Voice.  That  is  true  ! 

Voice.  Ay,  and  I love  him  now,  for  mine 
own  father 

Was  great,  and  cobbled. 

Voice.  Thou  art  Tostig’s  brother. 

Who  wastes  the  land. 

Harold.  This  brother  comes  to  save 
Your  land  from  waste  ; 1 saved  it  once  be- 
fore, 

For  when  your  people  banish’d  Tostig  hence, 
And  Edward  would  have  sent  a host  against 
you. 

Then  I,  who  loved  my  brother,  bade  the  king 
Who  doted  on  him,  sanction  your  decree 
Of  Tostig’s  banishment,  and  choice  of  Mor- 
car. 

To  help  the  realm  from  scattering. 

Voice.  King  ! thy  brother. 

If  one  may  dare  to  speak  the  truth,  was 
wrong’d. 

Wild  was  he,  born  so  : but  the  plots  against 
him 

Had  madden’d  tamer  men. 

Morcar,  Thou  art  one  of  those 

Who  brake  into  Lord  Tostig’s  treasure- 
house 

And  slew  two  hundred  of  his  following. 

And  now,  when  Tostig  hath  come  back  with 
power. 

Are  frighted  back  to  Tostig. 

Old  Thane.  Ugh  ! Plots  and  feuds  ! 
This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday.  Can  ye  not 
Be  brethren?  Godwin  still  at  feud  with 
Alfgar, 

And  Alfgar  hates  King  Harold.  Plots  and 
feuds  ! 

This  is  my  ninetieth  birthday  ! 

Harold.  Old  man,  Harold 

Hates  nothing  ; not  his  fault,  if  our  two 
houses 

Be  less  than  brothers. 

Voices.  Aldwyth,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.  Again  ! Morcar  ! Edwin  ! What 
do  they  mean  ? 

Edivin.  So  the  good  king  would  deign  to 
lend  an  ear 

Not  overscornful,  we  might  chance  — per- 
chance — 

To  guess  their  meaning. 

Morcar.  Thine  own  meaning,  Harold, 
To  make  all  England  one,  to  close  all  feuds. 
Mixing  our  bloods,  that  thence  a king  may 
rise 

Half-Godwin  and  half- Alfgar,  one  to  rule 
All  England  beyond  question,  beyond  quar- 
rel. 

Harold.  Who  sow’d  this  fancy  here  among 
the  people? 

Morcar.  Who  knows  what  sows  itself 
among  the  people  ? 

A goodly  flower  at  times. 

Harold.  The  Queen  of  Wales  ? 


Why,  Morcar,  it  is  all  but  duty  in  her 
To  hate  me  ; 1 have  heard  she  hates  me. 

Morcar.  No. 

For  I can  swear  to  that,  but  cannot  swear 
That  these  will  follow  thee  against  the  Norse- 
men, 

If  thou  deny  them  this. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin, 

When  will  ye  cease  to  plot  against  my  house  ? 
Edwin,  The  king  can  scarcely  dream  that 
we,  who  know 

His  prowess  in  the  mountains  of  the  West, 
Should  care  to  plot  against  him  in  the  North. 
Morcar.  Who  dares  arraign  us,  king,  of 
such  a plot? 

Harold.  Ye  heard  one  witness  even  now. 
Morcar.  The  craven  ! 

There  is  a faction  risen  again  for  Tostig, 
Since  Tostig  came  with  Norway  — fright  not 
love. 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye,  if  I 
yield. 

Follow  against  the  Norseman? 

Morcar.  Surely,  surely  ! 

Harold.  Morcar  and  Edwin,  will  ye  upon 
oath 

Help  us  against  the  Norman? 

Morcar.  With  good  will ; 

Yea,  take  the  Sacrament  upon  it,  king. 
Harold.  Where  is  thy  sister? 

Morcar.  Somewhere  hard  at  hand. 

Call  and  she  comes. 

[One  goes  out.,  then  enter  Aldwyth. 
Harold.  I doubt  not  but  thou  knowest 
Why  thou  art  summon’d. 

Aldwyth.  Why? — I stay  with  these, 

Lest  thy  fierce  Tostig  spy  me  out  alone, 

And  flay  me  all  alive. 

Harold.  ^ Canst  thou  love  one 

Who  did  discrown  thine  husband,  unqueen 
thee? 

Didst  thou  not  love  thine  husband? 

Aldwyth.  Oh  ! my  lord, 

The  nimble,  wild,  red,  wiry,  savage  king  — 
That  was,  my  lord,  a match  of  policy. 

Harold.  Was  it? 

I knew  him  brave  : he  loved  his  land : he 
fain 

Had  made  her  great ; his  finger  on  her 
harp 

(I  heard  him  more  than  once)  had  in  it 
Wale.s, 

Her  floods,  her  woods,  her  hills : had  I been 
his, 

I had  been  all  Welsh. 

A Idwyth.  Oh,  ay  — all  Welsh  — and  yet 
I saw  thee  drive  him  up  his  hills — and 
women 

Cling  to  the  conquer’d,  if  they  love,  the 
more  ; 

If  not,  they  cannot  hate  the  conqueror. 

We  never — oh  ! good  Morcar,  speak  for  us, 
His  conqueror  conquer’d  Aldwyth. 

Harold.  Goodly  news  ! 

Morcar.  Doubt  it  not  thou  ! Since  Grif- 
fyth’s  head  was  sent 
To  Edward,  she  hath  said  it. 


HAROLD, 


Harold.  I had  rather 

She  would  have  loved  her  husband.  Ald- 
wyth,  Aldwyth, 

Canst  thou  love  me,  thou  knowing  where  I 
love  ? 

Aldwyth.  I can,  my  lord,  for  mine  own 
sake,  for  thine. 

For  England,  for  thy  poor  white  dove,  who 
flutters 

Between  thee  and  the  porch,  but  then  would 
find 

Her  nest  within  the  cloister,  and  be  still, 

Harold.  Canst  thou  love  one,  who  cannot 
love  again  ? 

A Idwytk.  F ull  hope  have  I that  love  will 
answer  love. 

Harold.  Then  in  the  name  of  the  great 
God,  so  be  it ! 

Come,  Aldred,  join  our  hands  before  the 
hosts. 

That  all  may  see. 

[Aldred  joins  the  hands  of  Harold 
and  Aldwyth  and  blesses  them. 

Voices.  Harold,  Harold  and  Aldwyth  ! 

Harold.  Set  forth  our  golden  Dragon,  let 
him  flap 

The  w'ings  that  beat  down  Wales ! 

Advance  our  Standard  of  the  Warrior, 

Dark  among  gems  and  gold ; and  thou, 
brave  banner. 

Blaze  like  a night  of  fatal  stars  on  those 
Who  read  their  doom  and  die. 

Where  lie  the  Norsemen?  on  the  Derwent? 
ay 

At  Stamford-bridge. 

Morcar,  collect  thy  men ; Edwin,  my  friend  — 
Thou  lingerest.  — Gurth,  — 

Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 
dreams  — 

The  rosy  face  and  long  down  - silvering 
beard  — 

He  told  me  I should  conquer:  — 

I am  no  woman  to  put  faith  in  dreams. 

{To  his  army.') 

Last  night  King  Edward  came  to  me  in 
dreams, 

And  told  me  we  should  conquer. 

Voices.  Forward  ! Forward  ! 

Harold  and  Holy  Cross  I 

Aldwyth.  The  day  is  won  ! 

SCENE  II. —A  PLAIN.  BEFORE 

THE  BATTLE  OF  STAMFORD- 

BRIDGE. 

Harold  and  his  Guard. 

Harold.  Who  is  it  comes  this  way?  Tos- 
tig?  {Enter  Tostig  with  a small 
farce. ) O brother. 

What  art  thou  doing  here  ? 

Tostig.  I am  foraging 

For  Norway’s  army. 

Harold.  I could  take  and  slay  thee. 
Thou  art  in  arms  against  us. 

Tostig.  Take  and  slay  me. 

For  Edward  loved  me. 

Harold.  Edward  bade  me  spare  thee. 


401 

Tostig.  I hate  King  Edward,  for  he  join’d 
with  thee 

To  drive  me  outlaw’d.  Take  and  slay  me,  I 
say. 

Or  I shall  count  thee  fool. 

Harold.  Take  thee,  or  free  thee, 

Free  thee  or  slay  thee,  Norway  will  have  war; 
No  man  would  strike  with  Tostig,  save  for 
Norway. 

Thou  art  nothing  in  thine  England,  save  for 
Norway, 

Who  loves  not  thee  but  war.  What  dost  thou 
here. 

Trampling  thy  mother’s  bosom  into  blood? 
Tostig.  She  hath  wean’d  me  from  it  with 
such  bitterness. 

I come  for  mine  own  Earldom,  my  Nor- 
thumbria ; 

Thou  hast  given  it  to  the  enemy  of  our  house. 
Harold.  Northumbria  threw  thee  off,  she 
will  not  have  thee. 

Thou  hast  misused  her ; and,  O crowning 
. crime  ! 

Hast  murder’d  thine  own  guest,  the  son  of. 
Orm, 

Gamel,  at  thine  own  hearth. 

Tostig.  The  slow,  fat  fool ! 

He  drawl’d  and  prated  so,  I smote  him  sud- 
denly : 

I knew  not  what  I did.  « 

Harold,  Come  back  to  us, 

Know  what  thou  dost,  and  we  may  find  for 
thee, 

So  thou  be  chasten’d  by  thy  banishment. 
Some  easier  Earldom. 

Tostig.  What  for  Norway  then? 

He  looks  for  land  among  you,  he  and  his. 
Harold.  Seven  feet  of  English  land,  or 
something  more. 

Seeing  he  is  a giant. 

Tostig.  O brother,  brother, 

0 Harold  — 

Harold.  Nay  then  come  thou  back  to  us  ! 
Tostig.  Never  shall  any  man  say  that  I, 
that  Tostig 

Conjured  the  mightier  Harold  from  his  North 
To  do  the  battle  for  me  here  in  England, 
Then  left  him  for  the  meaner ! thee  ! — 
Thou  hast  no  passion  for  the  House  of  God- 
win — 

Thou  hast  but  cared  to  make  thyself  a king  — 
Thou  hast  sold  me  for  a cry.  — 

Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in  the 
Council  — 

1 hate  thee,  and  despise  thee,  and  defy  thee. 

Farewell  forever  1 \Exit. 

Harold.  On  to  Stamford-bridge  ! 

SCENE  III.  — AFTER  THE  BATTLE 
OF  STAMFORD-BRIDGE.  BAN- 
QUET. 

Harold  and  Aldwyth.  Gurth,  Leof- 
wiN,  Morcar,  Edwin,  and  other  Earls 
and  Thanes. 

Voices.  Hail!  Harold!  Aldwyth!  hail, 
bridegroom  and  bride  1 


402 


HAROLD. 


Aldivyth  {talking  -with  Harold).  An- 
swer them  thou  ! 

Is  this  our  marriage-banquet?  Would  the 
wines 

Of  wedding  had  been  dashM  into  the  cups 
Of  victory,  and  our  marriage  and  thy  glory 
Been  drunk  together!  these  poor  hands  but 
sew, 

Spin,  broider  — would  that  they  were  man’s 
to  have  held 
The  battle-axe  by  thee  ! 

Harold.  There  was  a moment 

When  being  forced  aloof  from  all  my  guard. 
And  striking  at  Hardrada  and  his  madmen, 
I had  wish’d  for  any  weapon. 

A Idwyth.  Why  art  thou  sad  ? 

Harold.  I have  lost  the  boy  who  played 
at  ball  with  me. 

With  whom  I fought  another  fight  than  this 
Of  Stamford-bridge. 

A Idwyth.  Ay  ! ay  I thy  victories 

Over  our  own  poor  Wales,  when  at  thy  side 
He  conquer’d  with  thee. 

Harold.  No  — the  childish  fist 

That  cannot  strike  again. 

Aldwyth.  Thou  art  too  kindly. 

Why  didst  thou  let  so  many  Norsemen 
hence  ? 

Thy  fierce  forekings  had  clinch’d  their  pirate 
hides 

To  the  bleak  church  doors,  like  kites  upon  a 
barn. 

Harold.  Is  there  so  great  a need  to  tell 
thee  why? 

Aldwyth.  Yea,  am  I not  thy  wife? 

Voices.  Hail,  Harold,  Aldwyth  ! 

Bridegroom  and  bride  ! 

A Idwyth.  Answer  them  I 

VFo  Harold. 

Harold  {to  alt).  Earls  and  Thanes  I 

Full  thanks  for  your  fair  greeting  of  my 
bride  ! 

Earls,  Thanes,  and  all  our  countrymen  ! the 
day. 

Our  day  beside  the  Derwent  will  not  shine 
Less  than  a star  among  the  goldenest  hours 
Of  Alfred,  or  of  Edward  his  great  son, 

Or  Athelstan,  or  English  Ironside 
Who  fought  with  Knut,  or  Knut  who  coming 
Dane 

Died  English.  Every  man  about  his  king 
Fought  like  a king;  the  king  like  his  own 
man. 

No  better  ; one  for  all,  and  all  for  one. 

One  soul : and  therefore  have  we  shatter’d 
back 

The  hugest  wave  from  Norseland  ever  yet 
Surged  on  us,  and  our  battle-axes  broken 
The  Raven’s  wing,  and  dumb’d  his  carrion 
croak 

From  the  gray  sea  forever.  Many  are  gone  — 
Drink  to  the  dead  who  died  for  us,  the  living 
Who  fought  and  would  have  died,  but  hap- 
pier lived. 

If  happier  be  to  live  ; they  both  have  life 
In  the  large  mouth  of  England,  till  hervoxz^ 
Die  with  the  world.  Hail  — hail  I 


Morcar.  May  all  invaders  perish  like  Har- 
drada ! 

All  traitors  fail  like  Tostig  ! 

, \All  drink  but  Harold. 

Aldwyth.  Thy  cup ’s  full  ! 

Harold.  I saw  the  hand  of  Tostig  cover  it. 
Our  dear,  dead,  traitor-brother,  Tostig,  him 
Reverently  we  buried.  Friends,  had  I been 
here. 

Without  too  large  self-lauding  I must  hold 
I'he  sequel  had  been  other  than  his  league 
With  Norw'ay,  and  this  battle.  Peace  be 
with  him  1 

He  was  not  of  the  worst.  If  there  be  those 
At  banquet  in  this  hall,  and  hearing  me  — 
For  there  be  those  I fear  who  prick’d  the 
lion 

To  make  him  spring,  that  sight  of  Danish 
blood 

Might  serve  an  end  not  English  — peace 
with  them 

Likewise,  if  they  can  be  at  peace  with  what 
God  gave  us  to  divide  us  from  the  wolf  I 

Aldwyth  {aside  to  Harold).  Make  not 
our  Morcar  sullen  : it  is  not  wi.se. 

Harold.  Hail  to  the  living  who  fought, 
the  dead  who  fell ! 

Voices.  Hail,  hail ! 

First  Thane.  How  ran  that  answ’er  which 
^ King  Harold  gave 

To  his  dead  namesake,  when  he  ask’d  for 
England  ? 

Leofwin.  “ Seven  feet  of  English  earth, 
or  something  more. 

Seeing  he  is  a giant  ! ” 

First  Thane.  Then  for  the  bastard 

Six  feet  and  nothing  more  ! 

Leofwin.  Ay,  but  belike 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  his  measure. 

First  Thane.  By  St.  Edmund 

I over-measure  him.  Sound  sleep  to  the  man 
Here  by  dead  Norway  without  dream  or 
dawn  I 

Seco7id  Thane.  What  is  he  bragging  still 
that  he  will  come 

To  thrust  our  Harold’s  throne  from  under 
him? 

My  nurse  would  tell  me  of  a molehill  crying 
To  a mountain  “ Stand  aside  and  room  for 
me  ! ” 

First  Thane.  Let  him  come  ! let  him 
come.  Here ’s  to  him,  sink  or  swim  ! 

\_D  rinks. 

Second  Thane.  God  sink  him  ! 

First  Thane.  Cannot  hands  which  had 
the  strength 

To  shove  that  stranded  iceberg  off  our  shores. 
And  send  the  shatter’d  North  again  to  sea. 
Scuttle  his  cockle-shell?  What’s  Brunan- 
burg 

To  Stamford-bridge?  a war-crash,  and  so 
hard. 

So  loud,  that,  by  St.  DunS'an,  old  St.  Thor  — 
By  God,  we  thought  him  dead  — but  our 
old  Thor 

Heard  his  own  thunder  again,  and  woke  and 
came 


HAROLD. 


Among  us  again,  and  mark’d  the  sons  of 
those 

Who  made  this  Britain  England,  break  the 
North  : 

Mark’d  how  the  war-axe  swang, 

Heard  how  the  war-horn  sang, 

Mark’d  how  the  spear-head  sprang, 

Heard  how  the  shield-wall  rangi 
Iron  on  iron  clang, 

? Anvil  on  hammer  bang  — 

Second  Thane.  Hammer  on  anvil,  ham- 
mer on  anvil.  Old  dog, 

Thou  art  drunk,  old  dog  ! 

First  Thafie.  Too  drunk  to  fight  with  thee  ! 

Second  Thane.  Fight  thou  with  thine  own 
double,  not  with  me, 

Keep  that  for  Norman  William  ! 

First  Thane.  Dowm  with  William. 

Third  Thane.  The  w'asherwoinan’s  brat  ! 

Fotirth  Thane>  The  tanner’s  bastard  ! 

Fifth  Thane.  The  Falaise  by  blow  ! 

E titer  a Thane,  from  Pevensey,  s^attePd 
with  mud. 

Harold.  Ay,  but  what  late  guest, 

As  haggard  as  a fast  of  forty  days, 

And  caked  and  plaster’d  with  a hundred 
mires, 

Hath  stumbled  on  our  cups? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.  My  lord  the 
King  ! 

William  the  Norman,  for  the  wind  had 
changed  — 

Harold.  1 felt  it  in  the  middle  of  that 
fierce  fight 

At  Stamford-bridge.  William  hath  landed, 
ha? 

Thane from  Pevensey.  Landed  at  Peven- 
sey— I am  from  Pevensey  — 

Hath  wasted  all  the  land  at  Pevensey  — 
Hath  harried  mine  own  cattle  — God  con- 
found him  ! 

I have  ridden  night  and  day  from  Pevensey  — 
A thousand  ships,  a hundred  thousand  men — 
Thousands  of  horses,  like  as  many  lions 
N eighing  and  roaring  as  they  leapt  to  land  — 

Harold.  How  oft  in  coming  hast  thou 
broken  bread  ? 

Thane  from  Pevensey.  Some  thrice,  or  so. 

Harold.  Bring  not  thy  hollowness 

On  our  full  feast.  Famine  is  fear,  were  it  but 
Of  being  starved.  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  eat. 
And,  when  again  red-blooded,  speak  again  ; 

{Aside.) 

The  men  that  guarded  England  to  the  South 
Were  scatter’d  to  the  harvest.  . . . No  power 
mine 

To  hold  their  force  together.  . . . Many  are 
fallen 

At  Stamford-bridge.  . . . The  people  stupid- 
sure 

Sleep  like  their  swine.  ...  In  South  and 
North  at  once 
I could  not  be. 

{Aloud.) 

Gurth,  Leofwin,  Morcar,  Edwin  ! 
{Pointing  to  the  revellers.)  The  curse  of 
England ! these  are  drown’d  in  wassail. 


And  cannot  see  the  world  but  thro’  their 
wines ! 

Leave  them  ! and  thee  too,  Aldwyth,  must 
I leave  — 

Harsh  is  the  new'S  ! hard  is  our  honeymoon  ! 

Thy  pardon.  ( Turning  round  to  his  attend- 
ants.) Break  the  banquet  up.  ...  Ye 
four ! 

And  thou,  my  carrier-pigeon  of  black  new-s. 

Cram  thy  crop  full,  but  come  when  thou  art 
call’d.  [Exit  Harold. 


JACT  V. 

SCENE  L — A TENT  ON  A MOUND, 

FROM  WHICH  CAN  BE  SEEN 
THE  FIELD  OF  SENLAC. 

Harold,  sitting;  by  him  standing  }ii\]GH 

Margot  the  Monk,  Gurth,  Leofwin. 

Harold.  Refer  my  cause,  my  crown  to 
Rome  ! . . . The  wolf 

Mudded  the  brook,  and  predetermined  all. ' 

Monk, 

Thou  hast  said  thy  say,  and  had  my  con- 
stant “ No  ” 

For  all  but  instant  battle.  I hear  no  more. 

Margot.  Hear  me  again — for  the  last 
time.  Arise, 

Scatter  thy  people  home,  descend  the  hill. 

Lay  hands  of  full  allegiance  in  thy  Lord’s 

And  crave  his  mercy,  for  the  Holy  Father 

Hath  given  this  realm  of  England  to  the 
Norman. 

Harold.  Then  for  the  last  time,  monk, 
I ask  again 

When  had  the  Lateran  and  the  Holy  Father 

To  do  with  England’s  choice  of  her  own 
king? 

Margot.  Earl,  the  first  Christian  Csesar 
drew  to  the  East  ^ 

To  leave  the  Pope  dominion  in  the  West. 

He  gave  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  West. 

Harold.  So  ! — did  he  ? — Earl  — I have 
a mind  to  play 

The  William  with  thine  eyesight  and  thy 
tongue. 

Earl  — ay  — thou  art  but  a messenger  of 
William. 

l am  weary  — go  : make  me  not  wroth  with 
thee  ! 

Margot.  Mock-king,  I am  the  messenger 
of  God, 

His  Norman  Daniel  ; Mene,  Mene,  Tekel  ! 

Is  thy  wrath  Hell,  that  I should  .spare  to  cry. 

Yon  heaven  is  wroth  with  thee  I Hear  me 
again  ! 

Our  Saints  have  moved  the  Church  that 
moves  the  world. 

And  all  the  Heavens  and  very  God : they 
heard  — 

They  know  King  Edward’s  promise  and 
thine  — thine. 

Harold.  Should  they  not  know  free  Eng- 
land crowns  herself? 


404  HAROLD, 


Not  know  that  he  nor  I had  power  to  prom- 
ise ? 

Not  know  that  Edward  cancell’d  his  own 
promise? 

And  for  my  part  therein  — Back  to  that  jug- 
gler, {Rising-. 

Tell  him  the  Saints  are  nobler  than  he 
dreams, 

Tell  him  that  God  is  nobler  than  the  Saints, 
And  tell  him  we  stand  arm’d  on  Senlac  Hill, 
And  bide  the  doom  of  God. 

Margot.  Hear  it  thro’  me. 

The  realm  for  which  thou  art  forsworn  is 
cursed. 

The  babe  enwomb’d  and  at  the  breast  is 
cursed, 

The  corpse  thou  whelmest  with  thine  earth 
is  cursed, 

The  soul  who  fighteth  on  thy  side  is  cursed. 
The  seed  thou  sowest  in  thy  field  is  cursed, 
The  steer  wherewith  thou  ploughest  thy  field 
is  cursed. 

The  fowl  that  fleeth  o’er  thy  field  is  cursed, 
And  thou,  usurper,  liar  — 

Harold.  Out,  beast  monk  I 

{Lifting  his  hand  to  strike  him.  Gurth 
stops  the  blow. 

I ever  hated  monks. 

Margot.  I am  but  a voice 

Among  you  : murder,  martyr  me  if  ye  will  — 

Harold.  Thanks,  Gurth ! The  simple, 
silent,  honest  man 

Is  w’orth  a world  of  tonguesters.  { To  Mar- 
got.) Get  thee  gone ! 

He  means  the  thing  he  says.  See  him  out 
safe. 

Leofwin.  He  hath  blown  himself  as  red 
as  fire  with  curses. 

An  honest  fool  ! Follow  me,  honest  fool. 
But  if  thou  blurt  thy  curse  among  our  folk, 

I know  not  — I may  give  that  egg-bald  head 
The  tap  that  silences. 

Harold.  * See  him  out  safe. 

{Exeunt  Leofwin  and  Margot. 

Gurth.  Thou  hast  lost  thine  even  temper, 
brother  Harold  ! 

Harold.  Gurth,  when  I past  by  Wal- 
tham, my  foundation 

For  men  who  serve  the  neighbor,  not  them- 
selves, 

I cast  me  down  prone,  praying  ; and,  when 
I rose. 

They  told  me  that  the  Holy  Rood  had  lean’d 
And  bow’d  above  me  ; whether  that  which 
held  it 

Had  weaken’d  and  the  Rood  itself  were 
bound 

To  that  necessity  which  binds  us  down  ; 
Whether  it  bow’d  at  all  but  in  their  fancy  ; 
Or  if  it  bow’d,  whether  it  symboll’d  ruin 
Or  glory,  who  shall  tell?  but  they  w^ere 
sad, 

And  somewhat  sadden’d  me. 

Gtirth.  Yet  if  a fear, 

Or  shadow  of  a fear,  lest  the  strange  Saints 
By  whom  thou  swarest  should  have  power 
to  balk 


Thy  puissance  in  this  fight  with  him  who 
made 

And  heard  thee  swear — brother  — /have 
not  sworn  — 

If  the  king  fall,  may  not  the  kingdom  fall? 
But  if  I fall,  I fall ; and  thou  art  king  ; 

And  if  I win,  I win,  and  thou  art  king? 
Draw  thou  to  London,  there  make  strength 
to  breast 

Whatever  chance,  but  leave  this  day  to  me. 

Leofwin  {entering).  And  waste  the  land 
about  thee  as  thou  goest. 

And  be  thy  hand  as  winter  on  the  field. 

To  leave  the  foe  no  forage. 

Harold.  Noble  Gurth  ! 

Best  son  of  Godwin  ! If  I fall,  I fall  — 

The  doom  of  God  ! How  should  the  peo- 
ple fight 

When  the  king  flies?  And,  Leofwin,  art 
thou  mad? 

How  should  the  King  of  England  waste  the 
fields 

Of  England,  his  own  people? — No  glance 
yet 

Of  the  Northumbrian  helmet  on  the  heath? 

Leofwin.  No,  but  a shoal  of  wives  upon 
the  heath. 

And  some  one  saw'  thy  willy-nilly  nun 
Vying  a tress  against  our  golden  fern. 

Harold.  Vying  a tear  with  our  cold  dews, 
a sigh 

With  these  low-moaning  heavens.  Let  her 
be  fetch’d. 

We  have  parted  from  our  w'ife  without  re- 
proach, 

Tho’  we  have  dived  thro’  all  her  practices  ; 
And  that  is  well. 

Leofwin.  I saw  her  even  now : 

She  hath  not  left  us. 

Harold.  Nought  of  Morcar  then  ? 

Gurth.  Nor  seen,  nor  heard  ; thine,  Wil- 
liam’s or  his  own 

As  wind  blows,  or  tide  flow’s : belike  he 
w'atches. 

If  this  war-storm  in  one  of  its  rough  rolls 
Wash  up  that  old  crown  of  Northumberland. 

Harold.  I married  her  for  Morcar — a sin 
against 

The  truth  of  love.  Evil  for  good,  it  seems. 
Is  oft  as  childless  of  the  good  as  evil 
For  evil. 

Leofwin.  Good  for  good  hath  borne  at 
times 

A bastard  false  as  William. 

Harold.  Ay,  if  Wisdom 

Pair’d  not  with  Good.  But  I am  somewhat 
worn, 

A snatch  of  sleep  were  like  the  peace  ot 
God. 

Gurth,  Leofwin,  go  once  more  about  the 
hill  — 

What  did  the  dead  man  call  it — Sanguelac, 
The  lake  of  blood  ? 

Leofwm.  A lake  that  dips  in  William 
As  well  as  Harold. 

Harold.  Like  enough.  I have  seen 

The  trenches  dug,  the  palisades  uprear’d 


HAROLD, 


And  wattled  thick  with  ash  and  willow- 
wands  ; 

Yea,  wrought  at  them  myself.  Go  round 
once  more ; 

See  all  be  sound  and  whole.  No  Norman 
horse 

Can  shatter  England,  standing  shield  by 
shield ; 

Tell  that  again  to  all. 

Gurth,  I will,  good  brother. 

Harold.  Our  guardsman  hath  but  toil’d 
his  hand  and  foot, 

I hand,  foot,  heart  and  head.  Some  wine  ! 

{One  pours  wine  into  a goblet^  which 
he  hands  to  Harold. 

Too  much  ! 

What?  we  must  use  our  battle-axe  to-day. 
Our  guardsmen  have  slept  well,  since  we 
came  in? 

Leofivin.  Ay,  slept  and  snored.  Your 
second-sighted  man 

That  scared  the  dying  conscience  of  the  king. 
Misheard  their  snores  for  groans.  They 
are  up  again. 

And  chanting  that  old  song  of  Brunanburg 
Where  England  conquer’d. 

Harold.  That  is  well.  The  Norman, 
What  is  he  doing  ? 

Leo/win.  Praying  for  Normandy  ; 

Our  scouts  have  heard  the  tinkle  of  their 
bells. 

Harold.  And  our  old  songs  are  prayers 
for  England  too ! 

But  by  all  Saints  — 

Leofwin.  Barring  the  Norman  ! 

Harold.  Nay, 

Were  the  great  trumpet  blowing  doomsday 
dawn, 

I needs  must  rest.  Call  when  the  Norman 
moves  — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Harold. 
No  horse  — thousands  of  horses  — our  shield 
wall  — 

Wall  — break  it  not  — break  not  — break  — 
[Sleeps- 

Vision  of  Edward.  Son  Harold,  I thy 
king,  who  came  before 
To  tell  thee  thou  shouldst  win  at  Stamford- 
bridge, 

Come  yet  once  more,  from  where  I am  at 
peace. 

Because  I loved  thee  in  my  mortal  day, 

To  tell  thee  thou  shalt  die  on  Senlac  hill  — 
Sanguelac  ! 

Vision  of  Wulfnoth.  O brother,  from  my 
ghastly  oubliette 

I send  my  voice  across  the  narrow  seas  — 

No  more,  no  more,  dear  brother,  never- 
more — 

Sanguelac ! 

Vision  of  Tostig.  O brother,  most  un- 
brotherlike to  me. 

Thou  gavest  thy  voice  against  me  in  my  life, 

I give  my  voice  against  thee  from  the  grave  — 
Sanguelac ! 

Vision  of  Norman  Sabits.  O hapless  Har- 
old ! King  but  for  an  hour  1 


405 

Thou  swarest  falsely  by  our  blessed  bones, 
We  give  our  voice  against  thee  out  of  heaven  ! 
Sanguelac  ! Sanguelac  ! The  arrow  ! the 
arrow  ! 

Harold  [starting  up^  battle-axe  in  hand). 
Away ! 

My  battle-axe  against  your  voices.  Peace  ! 
The  king’s  last  word  — “ the  arrow  ! ’*  I 
shall  die  — 

I die  for  England  then,  who  lived  for  Eng- 
land— 

What  nobler?  men  must  die. 

I cannot  fall  into  a falser  world — 

I have  done  no  man  wrong.  Tostig,  poor 
brother. 

Art  thou  so  anger’d? 

Fain  had  I kept  thine  earldom  in  thy  hands 
Save  for  thy  wild  and  violent  will  that 
wrench’d 

All  hearts  of  freemen  from  thee.  I could  do 
No  other  than  this  way  advise  the  king 
Against  the  race  of  Godwin.  Is  it  possible 
That  mortal  men  should  bear  their  earthly 
heats 

Into  yon  bloodless  w'orld,  and  threaten  us 
thence 

Unschool’d  of  Death  ? Thus  then  thou  art 
revenged  — 

I left  our  England  naked  to  the  South 
To  meet  thee  in  the  North.  The  Norse- 
man’s raid 

Hath  helpt  the  Norman,  and  the  race  of 
Godwin 

Hath  ruin’d  Godwin.  No  — our  waking 
thoughts 

Suffer  a stormless  shipwreck  in  the  pools 
Of  sullen  slumber,  and  arise  again 
Disjointed  ; only  dreams  — where  mine  own 
self 

Takes  part  against  myself!  Why?  for  a 
spark 

Of  self-disdain  born  in  me’ when  I swafe 
Falsely  to  him,  the  falser  Norman,  over 
His  gilded  ark  of  mummy-.saints,  by  whom 
I knew  not  that  I sware,  — not  for  myself — 
For  England  — yet  not  wholly  — 

Enter  Edith. 

Edith,  Edith, 

Get  thou  into  thy  cloister  as  the  king 
Will’d  it : be  safe : the  perjury-mongering 
Count 

Hath  made  too  good  an  use  of  Holy  Church 
To  break  her  close  I There  the  great  God 
of  truth 

Fill  all  thine  hours  with  peace!  — A lying 
devil 

Hath  haunted  me  — mine  oath  — my  wife  — 
I fain 

Had  made  my  marriage  not  a lie  ; I could 
not : 

Thou  art  my  bride  ! and  thou  in  after  years 
Praying  perchance  for  this  poor  soul  of  mine 
In  pld,  w'hite  cells  beneath  an  icy  moon  — 
This  memory  to  thee! — and  this  to  Eng- 
land, 

My  legacy  of  war  against  the  Pope 


4o6  HAROLD. 


From  child  to  child,  from  Pope  to  Pope, 
from  age  to  age, 

Till  the  sea  wash  her  level  with  her  shores. 
Or  till  the  Pope  be  Christ’s. 

Enter  Aldwyth. 

Aldwyth  {to  Edith).  Away  from  him  • 
Edith.  1 will  ...  I have  not  spoken  to  the 
king 

One  word ; and  one  I must.  Farewell ! 

[ Going. 

Harold*  Not  yet. 

Stay. 

Edith.  To  what  use? 

Harold.  The  king  commands  thee,  woman  ! 
( To  Aldwyth.) 

Have  thy  two  brethren  sent  their  forces  in  ? 
Aldwyth.  Nay,  I fear,  not. 

Harold.  Then  there ’s  no  force  in  thee  ! 
Thou  didst  possess  thyself  of  Edward’s  ear 
To  part  me  from  the  woman  that  I loved  ! 
Thou  didst  arouse  the  fierce  Northumbrians  ! 
Thou  hast  been  false  to  England  and  to  me  ! 
As  ...  in  some  sort  ...  I have  been  false 
to  thee. 

Leave  me.  No  more  — Pardon  on  both  sides 
— Go  ! 

A Idwyth.  Alas,  my  lord,  1 loved  thee. 
Harold.  With  a love 

Passing  thy  love  for  Griffyth  ! wherefore 
now 

Obey  my  first  and  last  commandment.  Go  ! 
Aldwyth.  O Harold  ! husband  ! Shall 
we  meet  again? 

Harold.  After  the  battle  — after  the  bat- 
tle. Go. 

Aldwyth.  I go.  (Aside.)  That  I could 
stab  her  standing  there  ! 

[Exit  Aldwyth. 

Edith.  Alas,  my  lord,  she  loved  thee. 
Harold*  ^ ^ Never ! never ! 

Edith.  I saw  it  in  her  eyes  ! . 

Harold.  I see  it  in  thine. 

And  not  on  thee  — nor  England  — fall  God’s 
doom  ! 

Edith.  On  thee  I on  me.  And  thou  art 
England ! Alfred 

Was  England.  Ethelred  was  nothing.  Eng- 
land 

Is  but  her  king,  and  thou  art  Harold  ! 

Harold.  Edith, 

The  sign  in  heaven  — the  sudden  blast  at 
sea  — 

My  fatal  oath  — the  dead  Saints  — the  dark 
dreams  — 

The  Pope’s  Anathema — the  Holy  Rood 
That  bow’d  to  me  at  Waltham — Edith,  if 
I,  the  last  English  King  of  England  — 
Edith.  No, 

First  of  a line  that  coming  from  the  people. 
And  chosen  by  the  people  — 

Harold.  And  fighting  for 

And  dying  for  the  people  — 

Edith.  Living  ! living  ! 

Harold.  Yea  so,  good  cheer  ! thou  art 
Harold,  I am  Edith  ! 

Look  not  thus  wan  ! 


Edith.  What  matters  how  I look  ? 

Have  we  not  broken  Wales  and  Norse- 
land  ? slain. 

Whose  life  was  all  one  battle,  incarnate  war. 
Their  giant-king,  a mightier  man-in-arms 
Than  William. 

Harold.  Ay,  my  girl,  no  tricks  in  him  — 
No  bastard  he  ! when  all  was  lost,  he  yell’d. 
And  bit  his  shield,  and  dash’d  it  on  the 
ground. 

And  swaying  his  two-handed  sword  about 
him, 

Two  deaths  at  every  swing,  ran  in  upon  us 
And  died  so,  and  I loved  him  as  I hate 
This  liar  who  made  me  liar.  If  Hate  can 
kill,  ^ 

And  I.oathing  wield  a Saxon  battle-axe  — 

Edith.  Waste  not  thy  might  before  the 
battle  ! 

Harold.  And  thou  must  hence.  Stigand 
will  see  thee  safe. 

And  so — Farewell. 

[He  is  going.,  bnt  turns  hack. 

The  ring  thou  darest  not  wear, 
I have  had  it  fashion’d,  see,  to  meet  my 
hand. 

[Harold  shows  the  ring  which  is  on 
his  Jifiger. 

Farewell  ! 

[He  is  going.,  hut  turns  hack  again. 
I am  dead  as  Death  this  day  to  aught  of 
earth’s 

Save  William’s  death  or  mine. 

Edith.  Thy  death  ! — to-day  ! 

Is  it  not  thy  birthday  ? 

Harold.  Ay,  that  happy  day  ! 

A birthday  welcome  ! happy  days  and  many  ! 
One  — this  ! [ They  embrace. 

Look,  I will  bear  thy  blessing  into  the  battle 
And  front  the  doom  of  God. 

Norman  Cries  (heard  in  the  distance). 
Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou  ! 

Enter  Gurth. 

Gurth.  The  Norman  moves  ! 

Harold.  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

[Exeunt  Harold  and  Gurth. 

Enter  Stigand. 

Stigand.  Our  Church  in  arms  — the  lamb 
the  lion  — not 

Spear  into  pruning-hook  — the  counter  way— 
Cowl,  helm  ; and  crozier,  battle-axe.  Abbot 
Alfwig, 

Leofric,  and  all  the  monks  of  Peterboro’ 
Strike  for  the  king  ; but  I,  old  wretch,  old 
Stigand, 

With  hands  too  limp  to  brandish  iron  — and 
yet 

I have  a power  — would  Harold  ask  me  for 
it  — 

I have  a power. 

Edith.  What  power,  holy  father  ? 

Stigand.  Power  now  from  Harold  to  com- 
mand thee  hence 
And  see  thee  safe  from  Senlac. 

Edith.  I remain  ! 


HAROLD, 


Stigand.  Yea,  so  will  I,  daughter,  until  I 
find 

Which  way  the  battle  balance.  I can  see  it 
From  where  we  stand : and,  live  or  die,  I 
w'ould 

I were  among  them  ! 

Canons  from  Waltham  {singing  with- 
out). 

Salva  patriam 
Sancte  Pater, 

Salva  Fill, 

Salva  Splritus, 

Salva  patriam, 

Sancta  Mater.* 

Edith.  Are  those  the  blessed  angels  quir- 
ing,  father? 

Stigand.  No,  daughter,  but  the  canons 
out  of  Waltham, 

The  king’s  foundation,  that  have  follow’d 
him. 

Edith.  O God  of  battles,  make  their  wall 
of  shields 

Firm  as  thy  cliffs,  strengthen  their  palisades  ! 
What  is  that  whirring  sound  ? 

Stigand.  The  Norman  arrow  ! 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  battle  — is  he 
safe  ? 

Stigand.  The  king  of  England  stands  be- 
tween his  banners. 

He  glitters  on  the  crowning  of  the  hill. 

God  save  King  Harold  ! 

Edith.  — chosen  by  his  people, 

And  fighting  for  his  people  ! 

Stigand.  There  is  one 

Come  as  Goliath  came  of  yore  — he  flings 
His  brand  in  air  and  catches  it  again ; 

He  is  chanting  some  old  war-song. 

Edith.  And  no  David 

To  meet  him  ? 

Stigand,  Ay,  there  springs  a Saxon  on 
him. 

Falls  — and  another  falls. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  Lo  ! our  good  Gurth  hath  smit- 
ten him  to  the  death. 

Edith.  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of  Har- 
old! 

Canons  {singing). 

Hostis  in  Angliam 
Ruit  prsedator, 

Illorum,  domine, 

Scutum  scindatur  I 
Hosti.s  per  Angliae 
Plagas  bacchatur ; 

Casa  crematur, 

Pastor  fugatur 
Grex  trucidatur  — 

Stigand.  Ill^s  trucida,  Domine. 

Edith.  Ay,  good  father. 

Canons  {singing). 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

English  Cries.  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 
Out  ! out ! 

Stigand.  Our  javelins 

Answer  their  arrows.  All  the  Norman  foot 

* The  a throughout  these  hymns  should  be 
sounded  broad,  as  in  “ father.” 


407 

Are  storming  up  the  hill.  The  range  of 
knights 

Sit,  each  a statue  on  his  horse,  and  wait. 
English  Cries.  Harold  and  God  Al- 
mighty ! 

Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou  ! 
Canons  (sing mg). 

Eques  cum  pedite 
Praepediatur  I 
Illorum  in  lacrymas 
Cruor  fundatur ! 

Pereant,  pereant, 

Anglia  precatur. 

Stigand.  Look,  daughter,  look. 

Edith.  Nay,  father,  look  for  me  ! 

Stigand.  Our  axes  lighten  with  a single 
flash 

About  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  heads 
And  arms  are  sliver’d  off  and  splinter'd  by 
Their  lightning  — and  they  fly  — the  Nor- 
man flies. 

Edith.  Stigand,  O father,  have  we  won 
the  day  ? 

Stigand.  No,  daughter,  no  — they  fall  be-  - 
hind  the  horse  — 

Their  horse  are  thronging  to  the  barricades ; 

I see  the  gonfanon  of  Holy  Peter 
Floating  above  their  helmets  — ha!  he  is 
down  I 

Edith.  He  down  ! Who  down? 

Stigand.  The  Norman  count  is  down. 
Edith.  So  perish  all  the  enemies  of  Eng- 
land ! 

Stigand.  No,  no,  he  hath  risen  again  — 
he  bares  his  face  — 

Shouts  something  — he  points  onward  — all 
their  horse 

Swallow  the  hill  locust-like,  swarming  up. 
Edith.  O God  of  battles,  make  his  battle- 
axe  keen 

As  thine  own  sharp-dividing  justice,  heavy 
As  thine  own  bolts  that  fall  on  crimeful  heads 
Charged  with  the  weight  of  heaven  where- 
from they  fall  ! 

Canons  {singing). 

Jacta  tonitrua 
Deus  bellator ! 

Surgas  e tenebris. 

Sis  vindicator ! 

Fulmina,  fulmina 
Deus  vastator ! 

Edith.  O God  of  battles,  they  are  three 
to  one. 

Make  thou  one  man  as  three  to  roll  them 
down  I 

Canons  {sing mg). 

Equus  cum  equite 
Dejiciatur ! 

Acies,  Acies 

Prona  sternatur  ! 

Illorum  lanceas 
Frange  Creator ! 

Stigand.  Yea,  yea,  for  how  their  lances 
snap  and  shiver 

Against  the  shifting  blaze  of  Harold’s  axe  ! 
War-woodman  of  old  Woden,  how  he  fells 
The  mortal  copse  of  faces  ! There  ! And 
there  I 


/ 


4o8 


HAROLD. 


The  horse  and  horseman  cannot  meet  the 
shield. 

The  blow  that  brains  the  horseman  cleaves 
the  horse, 

The  horse  and  horseman  roll  along  the  hill, 
I’hey  fly  once  more,  they  fly,  the  Norman 
flies  ! 

Equus  cum  equite 
^ Praecipitatur. 

Edith.  O God,  the  God  of  truth  hath 
heard  my  cry. 

Follow  them,  follow  them,  drive  them  to  the 
sea ! 

Illorum  scelera 
Poena  sequatur ! 

Stigand.  Truth  ! no  ; a lie ; a trick,  a 
Norman  trick  ! 

They  turn  on  the  pursuer,  horse  against  foot, 
They  murder  all  that  follow. 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  Hot-headed  fools  — to  burst  the 
wall  of  shields  ! 

They  have  broken  the  commandment  of  the 
king  ! 

Edith.  His  oath  was  broken  — O holy 
Norman  Saints, 

Ye  that  are  now  of  heaven,  and  see  beyond 
Your  Norman  shrines,  pardon  it,  pardon  it, 
That  he  forsw-are  himself  for  all  he  loved. 

Me,  me  and  all  ! Look  out  upon  the  battle  ! 

Stigand.  They  press  again  upon  the  bar- 
ricades. 

My  sight  is  eagle,  but  the  strife  so  thick  — 
This  is  the  hottest  of  it ; hold,  ash  ! hold, 
willow  ! 

English  Cries.  Out,  out  ! 

Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou  ! 

Stigand.  Ha  ! Gurth  hath  leapt  upon 
him 

And  slain  him  : he  hath  fallen. 

Edith.  And  I am  heard. 

Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest  ! fallen,  fallen  ! 

Stigand.  No,  no,  his  horse  — he  mounts 
another  — wields 

His  war-club,  dashes  it  on  Gurth,  and  Gurth, 
Our  noble  Gurth,  is  down  ! 

Edith.  _ mercy  on  us  ! 

Stigand.  And  Leofwin  is  down  ! 

Edith.  Have  mercy  on  us  ! 

O Thou  that  knowest,  let  not  my  strong 
prayer 

Be  weaken’d  in  thy  sight,  because  I love 
The  husband  of  another  ! 

Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou  ! 

Edith.  I do  not  hear  our  English  war-cry. 

Stigand.  No. 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  battle — is  he 
safe  ? 

Stigand.  He  stands  between  the  banners 
with  the  dead 

So  piled  about  him  he  can  hardly  move. 

Edith  [takes  up  the  war-cry).  Out  ! out  !* 

Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou  ! 

Edith  [cries  out).  Harold  and  Holy  Cross  ! 

Norman  Cries.  Ha  Rou  ! Ha  Rou  ! 

Edith.  What  is  that  whirring  sound? 


Stigand.  The  Norman  sends  his  arrows 
up  to  Heaven, 

They  fall  on  those  within  the  palisade  ! 

Edith.  Look  out  upon  the  hill  — is  Har- 
old there  ? 

Stigand.  Sanguelac  — Sanguelac  — the 
arrow  — the  arrow  ! — away  ! 

SCENE  11.  — FIELD  OF  THE  DEAD. 

NIGHT. 

Aldwyth  and  Edith. 

Aldwyth.  O Edith,  art  thou  here?  O 
Harold,  Harold  — 

Our  Harold  — we  shall  never  see  him  more. 

Edith.  For  there  was  more  than  sister  in 
my  kiss. 

And  so  the  saints  were  wroth.  I cannot 
love  them. 

For  they  are  Norman  saints  — and  yet  I 
should  — 

They  are  so  much  holier  than  their  harlot’s  son 
With  whom  they  play’d  their  game  against 
the  king  1 . . . 

Aldwyth.  The  king  is  slain,  the  kingdom 
overthrown  ! 

Edith.  No  matter! 

A Idwyth.  How'  no  matter,  Harold  slain  ? — 
1 cannot  find  his  body.  O help  me  thou  I 

0 Edith,  if  I ever  wrought  against  thee, 
Forgive  me  thou,  and  help  me  here  ! 

Edith.  No  matter. 

Aldwyth.  Not  help  me,  nor  forgive  me  ? 

Edith.  So  thou  saidest. 

A Idwyth.  I say  it  now',  forgive  me  ! 

Edith.  Cross  me  not  ! 

1 am  seeking  one  who  wedded  me  in  secret. 
Whisper  ! God’s  angels  only  know  it.  Hal 
What  art  thou  doing  here  among  the  dead  ? 
They  are  stripping  the  dead  bodies  naked 

yonder, 

And  thou  art  come  to  rob  them  of  their 
rings  ! 

Aldwyth  O Edith,  Edith,  I have  lost 
both  crown 
And  husband. 

Edith.  So  have  I. 

A Idwyth.  I tell  thee,  girl, 

I am  seeking  my  dead  Harold. 

Edith.  And  I mine  I 

The  Holy  Father  strangled  him  with  a hair 
Of  Peter,  and  his  brother  Tostig  helpt  ; 

The  wicked  sister  clapt  her  hands  and 
laught ; 

Then  all  the  dead  fell  on  him. 

Aldwyth  Edith,  Edith  — 

Edith.  What  was  he  likq|  this  husband  ? 
like  to  thee  ? 

Call  not  for  help  from  me.  I knew  him  not. 
Heliesnothere:  not  close  beside  thestandard. 
Here  fell  the  truest,  manliest  hearts  of  Eng- 
land. 

Go  further  hence  and  find  him. 

A Idwyth.  She  is  crazed ! 

Edith.  That  doth  not  matter  either. 
Lower  the  light. 

He  must  be  here. 


HAROLD. 


Enter  two  Canons,  Osgod  and  Athelric, 
ivith  torches.  They  turn  over  the  dead 
bodies  and  examine  them  as  they  pass. 
Os^od.  I think  that  this  is  Thurkill. 

Athelric.  More  likely  Godric. 

Osgod.  I am  sure  this  body 

Is  Aliwig,  the  king’s  uncle. 

A their  ic.  So  it  is  ! 

No,  no  — brave  Gurth,  one  gash  from  brow 
to  knee  ! 

Osgod.  And  here  is  Leofwin. 

Edith.  And  here  is  He  I 

Aldwytk.  Harold?  Oh  no  — nay,  if  it 
were  — my  God, 

They  have  so  maim’d  and  martyr’d  all  his 
face 

There  is  no  man  can  swear  to  him. 

Edith.  But  one  woman  ! 

Look  you,  we  never  mean  to  part  again. 

I have  found  him,  I am  happy. 

Was  there  not  some  one  ask’d  me  for  for- 
giveness ? 

I yield  it  freely,  being  the  true  wife 
Of  this  dead  King,  who  never  bore  revenge. 
Enter  Count  William  and  William 
Malet. 

William.  Who  be  these  women?  And 
what  body  is  this? 

Edith.  Harold,  thy  better  ! 

William.  Ay,  and  what  art  thou  ? 

Edith.  His  wife  ? 

Malet.  Not  true,  my  girl,  here  is  the 
Queen  ! 

^Pointing  out  Aldwyth. 
William  {to  Aldwyth).  Wast  thou  his 
Queen  ? 

Aldwyth.  I was  the  Queen  of  Wales. 
W illiam.  Why  then  of  England.  Madam, 
fear  us  not. 

{To  Malet.) 

Knowest  thou  this  other? 

Malet.  When  I visited  England, 

Some  held  she  was  his  wife  in  secret  — 
some  — 

Well  — some  believed  she  was  his  paramour. 

Edith.  Norman,  thou  liest ! liars  all  of  you, 
Your  Saints  and  all  ! I am  his  wife  ! and 
she  — 

For  look,  our  marriage  ring  ! 

{She  draws  it  off  the  Jinger  Harold. 

I lost  it  somehow  — 

I lost  it,  playing  with  it  when  I was  wild. 
'That  bred  the  doubt;  but  I am  wi.ser 
now  . . . 

I am  too  wise  . . . Will  none  among  you  all 
Bear  me  true  witness  — only  for  this  once  — 
That  I have  found  it  here  again  ? 

{She  puts  it  on. 
And  thou. 

Thy  wife  am  I for  ever  and  evermore. 

{Falls  on  the  body  and  dies. 
William.  Death  ! — and  enough  of  death 
for  this  one  day. 

The  day  of  St.  Calixtus,  and  the  day. 

My  day,  when  I was  born. 

Malet.  And  this  dead  king’s, 


Who,  king  or  not,  hath  kinglike  fought  and 
fallen. 

His  birthday,  too.  It  seems  but  yester-even 
I held  it  with  him  in  his  English  halls. 

His  day,  with  all  his  rooftree  ringing  “ Har- 
old,” 

Before  he  fell  into  the  snare  of  Guy  ; 

When  all  men  counted  Harold  would  be  king, 
And  Harold  was  most  happy. 

William.  Thou  art  half  English. 

Take  them  away  I 

Malet,  I vow  to  build  a church  to  God 
Here  on  this  hill  of  battle  ; let  our  high  altar 
Stand  where  their  standard  fell  . . . where 
these  two  lie. 

Take  them  away,  I do  not  love  to  see  them. 
Pluck  the  dead  woman  off  the  dead  man, 
Malet ! 

Malet.  Faster  than  ivy.  Must  I hack 
her  arms  off? 

How  shall  I part  them? 

William.  Leave  them.  Let  them  be  1 
Bury  him  and  his  paramour  together. 

He  that  was  false  in  oath  to  me,  it  seems  - 
Was  false  to  his  own  wife.  We  will  not 
give  him 

A Christian  burial : yet  he  was  a warrior, 
And  wise,  yea  truthful,  till  that  blighted  vow 
Which  God  avenged  to-day. 

Wrap  them  together  in  a purple  cloak 
And  lay  them  both  upon  the  waste  seashore 
At  Hastings,  th^re  to  guard  the  land  for 
which 

He  did  forswear  himself — a warrior — ay, 
And  but  that  Holy  Peter  fought  for  us, 

And  that  the  false  Northumbrian  held  aloof. 
And  save  for  that  chance  arrow  which  the 
Saints 

Sharpen’d  and  sent  against  him  — who  can 
tell?  — 

Three  horses  had  I slain  beneath  me  : twice 
I thought  that  all  w'as  lost.  Since  I knew 
battle. 

And  that  was  from  my  boyhood,  never  yet  — 
No,  by  the  splendor  of  God  — have  I fought 
men 

Like  Harold  and  his  brethren,  and  his  guard 
Of  English.  Every  man  about  his  king 
Fell  where  he  stood.  They  loved  him  : and, 
pray  God 

My  Normans  may  but  move  as  true  with  me 
To  the  door  of  death.  Of  one  self-stock  at 
first. 

Make  them  again  one  people  — Norman, 
English  ; 

And  English,  Norman;  — w^e  should  have 
a hand 

To  grasp  the  world  with,  and  a foot  to  stamp 
it  . . . t 

Flat.  Praise  the  Saints.  It  is  over.  No 
more  blood  I 

I am  King  of  England,  so  they  thwart  me  not. 
And  I will  rule  according  to  their  laws. 

{To  Aldwyth.) 

Madam,  we  will  entreat  thee  with  all  honor. 

Aldwyth.  My  punishment  is  more  than 
I can  bear. 


' ' ' ' ■'  . 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 
821T251877B  C001 
Poetical  works  of  Alfred  Tennyson. 


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